Heartlines
by frombluetored
Summary: An unknown threat sucks the Doctor and Clara into a parallel universe and leaves them stranded. While biding their time, they encounter the Clara of that universe and her achingly familiar husband. [12/Clara meets domestic!Clara/11. Sometimes all you need to confront your feelings is help from someone who knows you like they know themselves.]
1. Flights

**A/n: **Updates might be slow, but they'll be pretty lengthy (if all things go swimmingly). This story features the AU Clara/11 & company from my fic Of Adoration and Chaos, but you really, truly don't have to read that to read this (I'm just utilizing that AU version of Clara/11 and their family because I see no reason to create entirely new ones when I've already got them + their family + backstory already fully formed!). This story is—beyond everything else—a construction of 12/Clara and a story of how they eventually come together (through the help of some very familiar and unlikely friends). Will be around four parts, but don't hold me to that! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy :)

* * *

They were in the middle of a passionate argument when the TARDIS began lurching.

They went from angrily tossing words to quickly grabbing onto each other for balance. Clara felt her stomach plummet as the TARDIS flung itself sharply to the side. She and the Doctor spiraled to the side accordingly.

"What've you done?!" The Doctor bellowed. He was a mess of sharp, boney limbs below her. Clara spat out the hair that'd ended up in her mouth and reached blindly to the right, grabbing onto a bit of the railing to keep from falling down to the lower level.

"What have_ I_ done!? What have _you _done?! You're the pilot!"

"Well you wouldn't think so with the way you're trying to command my piloting—"

The TARDIS lights flickered once, twice, three times, and then shuddered off completely. Clara reached forward with some struggle and grabbed the railing with her left hand, too, as the TARDIS began doing what felt like barrel rolls. She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes tightly as they were flung back and forth. She spat her words through clenched teeth.

"I JUST WANTED TO BE BACK IN TIME FOR MY—"

All at once, the TARDIS stopped churning. Clara lay there panting, staring up at the flickering console lights, her heart trying to escape from her chest.

"…date." She finished quietly.

An ominous hissing sound was emitting from the ship. Clara had only just managed to pull herself painfully upright when a shrill alarm began. She clapped her hands over her ears and looked to the Doctor, wide-eyed and confused.

"WHAT IS GOING—"

He lunged towards her and grabbed her upper arm. He yanked her to her feet and took off towards the TARDIS doors, tugging her along behind him.

"Out. Get out!" He ordered.

Clara, for a moment, thought he was telling _her_ to leave. But then she felt the back of her throat begin to burn and itch. The feeling swelled until she was on all fours, coughing so hard it felt like her lungs were being yanked up her throat by fishing line. The Doctor stooped over with great effort—as he was coughing himself—and grasped her. He lifted her back to her feet and all but dragged her to the door. They both tumbled out and fell face-first into the grass below them as the TARDIS doors slammed shut behind them. Clara was in too much pain to pull her face from the muddy grass. She listened as the Doctor kept repeating "no, _no_, noooo…" from her left. After at least two minutes of coughing dryly (her throat now felt like sandpaper) and struggling to catch her breath, she turned over onto her back and looked up at the bright blue sky. She glanced backwards towards the horizon line and spotted the top of her building. She looked back at the clouds.

"At least we're here." She commented.

"No, no, no…"

"Granted, it's a bit earlier than when we left. But we'll just have to avoid the coffee shop until our past selves are gone."

When the Doctor failed to respond, she glanced towards him. He had his palms pressed over his face. He was shaking his head, horrified.

"What?" She demanded. She met his eyes once he slowly slid his hands from his face.

"The TARDIS sealed herself up."

"Because the gas?" Clara asked. She paused. "That's not going to cause long-term health problems, is it?"

He ignored her latter question.

"More because of the damage that caused the gas. She's going to have to shut herself down until the gas leak empties to prevent damage. Then she's going to have to slowly repair herself. I can't go in to help unless I want my veins to burst."

Clara propped herself up on her elbows. She stared down at him seriously.

"How long?"

"At least six months. Maybe more."

Her heart began pounding once more. Maybe harder than it had when they were crashing. And she'd thought hiding the Doctor from Danny was difficult before. How was she to keep him a secret if he was living with her for _six months_? She slowly lowered back down onto the grass.

"Oh."

He turned his head to the side, as if the idea of eye contact was upsetting.

"I can find some place else to stay." He said gruffly. "I know you've got Pink things."

It was oddly considerate and understanding. Clara sighed.

"Of course you're staying with me, Doctor. You know you're always welcome." Her tone was begrudging but her words were genuine. She sat up. "Perhaps it won't take as long as you think it will."

"Maybe." He said, but his frown communicated pretty clearly that he didn't believe that for a moment. Clara turned back to towards the TARDIS.

"Are we just going to leave it here?" She asked.

"We'll have to." The Doctor muttered. But he stared worriedly over his shoulder as they rose and walked towards the building, like leaving it behind was causing him great anxiety. Clara might've let her hand brush against his a few times as they walked, but she never would've admitted it. She told herself it was purely from the unsteady way she felt.

They were already to the third floor when she realized something wasn't right. She stopped in front of Mrs. Anderson's door and stared.

"What?" The Doctor asked impatiently. He was a good ways down the hall from her, not having noticed that she stopped. He trudged back and stood beside her as she stared at the door.

"I guess Mrs. Anderson passed away," Clara said, startled. She was looking at a pompous plaque on the door that said CARL CANTERBURG. She furrowed her brow. "But I just saw her this morning. How could they have already rented her flat to someone else? Unless…"

She spun around to face the Doctor. She pressed a finger into his chest.

"You returned me late! Again!" She shrieked. The panic began, thick and paralyzing. If she was stuck in some distant time in the future for six months…would she be able to go back? Or would Danny just think she disappeared for six months? How would she ever explain that to him?

"I didn't—"

She approached him so they were practically chest-to-chest. He stared down at her as she glowered.

"Get me back to where I belong." She ordered. "Now."

Had they not been arguing about this same thing a few minutes prior, she might've just had faith that he'd return her and gone with it. But he'd gotten her back late the past five times and she was starting to think it was all on purpose. And that thought infuriated her because it was the grandest action of disrespect she could think of.

"This is where you belong. This is the right time—I entered the right date, I know I did." He insisted. "Maybe Carl is the inheritor to her estate or something."

Clara held their gaze for a few long, challenging moments. She stepped back.

"Fine. But we're not finished with this conversation."

"Of course we aren't," he muttered underneath his breath. She glared and then walked off ahead of him. She was thinking of her brimming anger the entire walk up to her flat. It all crested when she inserted her key—only to find it didn't match the lock. She curled her fist shut around the metal key and gripped to the point of pain. She was so angry she couldn't speak.

"I don't understand," the Doctor muttered from her side, confused and irritated. "I know I put the right date in. August 3rd. I put in August 3rd."

Clara took a deep, calming breath.

"What_ year_, Doctor?"

"Your year! The right year! 2014!"

She turned around and smacked his shoulder.

"Obviously—" another smack "you—" another "bloody didn't!" He rubbed his shoulder as she fretted. "If we're a year in my future, can we go back once the TARDIS is fixed? Or have I missed out on this year completely?!"

"Ah…well…since we're on your planet, this is part of your time line now."

"I beg your pardon?"

"We can't alter this."

"Can't alter _what?_"

She wanted very much to slap him, but an alarming wave of vertigo overcame her at the same moment she moved forward to do so. She felt nausea swell and listened as a roaring began in her head—loud and overwhelming—and then she felt her knees weaken. As she fell against the wall, she remembered he'd failed to answer her question about that gas causing health problems.

"Christ," she breathed. Her vison was slanting. "I need to—sit. Stairs."

"Wait for me, let me help—"

"You've done enough." She snapped. She knew it wasn't fair—that there was no way he'd intentionally done this—but she was ill and horrified. She stumbled the short distance to the stairwell and sat down on the top step. She leaned against the wall and breathed shallowly through her mouth. She'd been gone for God only knew how long now; Danny probably thought she was dead. Or worse: that she'd abandoned him without even bothering to say goodbye. And her father…

It was one of her worst fears. Missing out on a year (or more) of her life was a sacrifice she never wanted to make. Clara couldn't accept it. He was wrong; there was a way to fix it. Perhaps he was right and they were in the right time after all. Maybe the locks were just changed on her door for some reason.

Even though she was petrified to find out, she pulled her phone from her handbag with weak hands. She pressed the home button and then moved to the calendar. She expected to scream when she saw the date that she did, but instead, she was numb. 3 August 2023. Nine years in the future. Her future.

Her emotional breakdown was averted by a small difference with her phone. She might not have noticed it if she hadn't looked to the top to double-check the time. In the upper left, where her phone used to say vodafone UK, it said _redu LTE. _She'd never heard of that service provider, much less switched to it. If she'd been gone for nine years, wouldn't they have switched off her line? She was staring intently at the screen when she heard a door open from the corridor she'd just left.

"Are you looking to buy?"

It was an unfamiliar female voice. Clara lowered her phone to her lap and stared forward, uneasy and confused. She hoped the Doctor would come sit beside her soon. She was worried she was dying from whatever she'd inhaled (she felt poorly enough to be, anyway).

"Erm….sure. Yes. My…girl and I were browsing the area. Is someone currently living here?"

"God, unfortunately. He watches loud porn all night long every single night. I came out last Saturday, right, and I tried to keep things civil. I informed him that I had a fucking kid sleeping over at mine and I really didn't need to explain to her what porn is because that's not even my job, but did he mind?"

"No." The Doctor replied flatly. Clara could practically see the bored expression his face.

"No! So I had to hack into his laptop and turn the porn off myself. And now we're not really on the best terms. So basically, if you'd like this flat, I'm more than willing to put in an extremely good word for you. And finish scaring off the current inhabitant."

"Right. Uh…have you lived here long? Just asking to survey the tenant satisfaction."

"About fourteen years. I moved here after university. It's a fairly peaceful block of flats, hardly any—"

"Yes, fascinating. So has the current tenant lived here for those entire fourteen years?"

"I think you ought to check your tone." She warned him. Her voice was steely. "But no, he hasn't. He moved here about three years ago. Before him it was this same old man—he'd been here since the flats were built."

"And the year?"

"Sorry?"

"The year. Right now. What year is it?"

"2023…"

"20…23. You're very sure?"

"I know I'm blonde, but I know the bloody year."

The Doctor was about to reply, but his words were drowned out by a different voice.

"CHARLIE, CAN I HAVE A MARTINI?"

The woman lifted her voice to reply. She sounded cross.

"ABSOLUTELY NOT, LOTTIE!"

"BUT YOU MADE MY MUM ONE!"

"YOUR MUM'S AN ADULT!"

"WHEN I'M THIRTEEN CAN I?"

"AGAIN: ABSOLUTELY NOT! MAYBE WHEN YOU'RE SIXTEEN."

"UGH!"

"Anyway, as you can tell, I've got company that probably needs adult supervision. Good luck with your, ah, flat searching."

"Wait. So, just to clarify. You've lived here since 2009. And during that time, a petite, young, brunette schoolteacher never lived in this flat?"

"No..."

"Brilliant! Brilliant, brilliant, _brilliant."_

She heard his approaching footsteps. She was still too lightheaded to turn and greet him. She didn't even open her eyes.

"Clara, this is great." He began. He sat down beside her and reached over for her hand. He pressed his fingers over her pulse point as he continued talking. "We're not nine years in your future. We're nine years in the future in an alternate universe. Well, either that or you've been erased from history somehow, but seeing as though the TARDIS had such a terrible landing—we're safe."

"We're stuck in a different universe for six months. How is that a good thing?" She demanded.

He dropped her wrist.

"You're not going to die. You just might feel woozy for the rest of the day. It's possible you might pass out for anywhere from ten to twenty-four hours. And it's brilliant because this means we can get you back home right when we left. Once the TARDIS is fixed, that is."

She let out an exhalation of relief. She reached up and pressed her face into her hands.

"Thank _God_," she whispered. She knew it was still less than ideal—they were stranded here and a lot could change in six months—but it was better than the alternative. She felt her muscles gradually relaxing. "So what now?"

"We need a place to stay. So we need money. Have you any on you?"

"Not much. I've got my card, but I'm guessing I don't have a bank account to access?"

"You'd guess correctly. Seems we'll be needing jobs, then. Or a bank that's very easy to rob…hmm, hang on. I've got a contact. Or a person I'm going to make contact with again."

Clara opened her eyes and turned to glance at him, but he was already halfway out of the stairwell. She listened to him knock firmly on what she presumed was that same lady's door.

"You again? No offense, but I'm rethinking my recommendation."

"I'm new in town. I haven't a job or money. Where can I get a job that pays well but requires relatively no effort?"

The woman paused. Clara expected her to slam the door in his face or tell him off. She was pretty close.

"The job you're looking for doesn't actually exist, mate. We're looking for a few more receptionists where I work, but it's not the easiest job. And I don't have the best impression of you right now, but I'm willing to give you a second chance because I like your voice. Are you any good with computers?"

"I'm better than anyone you've ever _met _with computers."

"Not likely. But, hey, we've got an opening for a tech assistant, too. You'll mostly be dealing with my boss, she's got a lot going on and needs someone to—

"OH GOD! WATER SPILL!"

"Fucking _hell_." The woman groaned. "Sunny shits. Right. I've got to go. Seriously, don't come back, all right? If you're interested in the jobs, we're doing interviews tomorrow from eight in the morning 'till lunch. We're at the technology headquarters of British Airways. It's in Southwark—just google it. Bye."

"OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! THAT IS _NOT WATER, _CHARLIE! YOU LIED! THAT'S CORROSIVE!"

"GET _AWAY_ FROM MY…WATER…BOTTLE! YOUR MUM'S GOING TO—"

The screams turned to indistinguishable mumbles once the door was slammed shut. Clara counted the Doctor's approaching footsteps until her mind was too hazy. She could barely feel him placing a protective hand on her back.

"Clara?"

He sounded terribly far away. Clara struggled to right her thoughts.

"Someone should…tell that girl's mum…to get a better..."

"Shhh. Hang on. I'm going to get you somewhere safe to sleep this off. The effects are temporary, I promise."

She parted her heavy eyelids two times as he pulled her to her feet. She got moving flashes of the stairwell both times, but not much else before her eyes rolled back into her head again. She shook. She didn't know what she felt beyond ill and frightened.

"I want to go home."

"We'll find a home. Don't you worry, Clara."

She wanted _her _home. Her flat and her fish and her plants. She was filled to the brim with that longing—until her insides emptied out completely.

* * *

She woke to the sound of the Doctor arguing with himself.

Her chest ached like something weighty had slammed into it, and her head was throbbing, but she was able to sit up without any difficulty. She glanced around the fully furnished studio flat, her mind scrambling to place her location.

"It's technically breaking and entering. But the owner's out of the country right now. I figure, as long as we tidy up after ourselves, he never has to know."

Clara's eyes turned slowly to the far corner. The Doctor was sitting on a plush, black sofa, his hands locked nervously in his lap. She reached up and touched her tender temple. She winced.

"What happened to me?"

"Toxic fumes. They wreaked havoc on your body. But you'll be okay. When I did a scan, you only had a small percentage of the toxin left in your body."

Oddly enough, she wasn't really reassured to hear that. She pushed the duvet off her legs and turned. The bed was so strangely high that her feet dangled above the ground.

"So we're in a parallel universe," she began. It was trickling back into her bit by bit. She looked up from her swinging feet and found the Doctor's light eyes. "So this means…once the TARDIS is fixed…"

"We can go back to when we left, yes." He reiterated. Clara let out an exhalation of relief. She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers over them. All she had to do was take it step by step, and then she'd be back home. This wasn't a disaster. This wasn't out of her control.

"Good." She said.

"Yep. So your interview's in about an hour. Mine's in thirty minutes, so I guess I'm going to go on ahead."

Clara snapped her head up. She stared at the Doctor, her lips parted, eyes wide.

"My _what_?" She demanded.

He was already up and in a flurry of motion. She watched him step into the opened bathroom and spray the flat owner's cologne on his stale jacket. He ducked his head and gave it an experimental sniff a moment later.

"Your interview. Coal Hill wasn't hiring so I got you an interview at another secondary school. I've got an interview with the bad babysitter. Something with computers. I'll be great and they'll all be rubbish."

Clara tried to jump to her feet, but she wasn't ready for that yet. She swayed and then fell back down.

"Doctor," she started. She forced herself to remain calm. "I haven't got a CV with me. I don't _exist _in this universe. How am I supposed to do an interview?"

"I already took care of it while you were out. Which was for quite a long while, actually. It's because you're so short. Less area for the toxin to spread about." He replied. "How do you feel about the name Ossie?"

"It's rubbish."

"Sorry to hear that, Ossie." He walked back into the room once he felt freshened up. Clara lifted her hands as he threw something her way. She slapped her hands shut and caught the folder _barely_. "There are your documents."

Clara opened the folder and rifled quickly through the papers. She stared at her fake CV.

"Ossie Oswin? Are you _serious_?" She breathed. She looked up at the Doctor, disturbed to find him not the least bit concerned. "What happened to Clara Oswald?!"

"Computer didn't like that for some reason. Had to make up another." He replied. He sat on the sofa and leaned forward, beginning the process of pulling his shoes back on. Clara wondered, for a moment, if he'd slept in the bed beside her last night. But the question was abrupt and it made her heart swell in strange ways, so she quickly compartmentalized it.

"The computer 'didn't like it'." She repeated flatly. "What exactly does that mean?"

"It means—" he tugged aggressively on a shoe lace. "That either someone has that same name and birthday and national insurance number, or the computer was feeling off-color, and that's all the answers I have for you, Ossie."

Clara cast her eyes to the clunking monster of a computer in the corner. Just looking at it made her feel anxious. She turned back to the Doctor.

"So did you give me a new number?" She demanded. She paused. "Hang on. You have my national insurance number memorized?"

"For emergencies." He stood up and held his arms out. "Do I look like a Tech assistant to you?"

"You look like a know-it-all who's scheduled me an interview without even asking first."

"Sounds about right."

He headed towards the door. He paused in front as he tucked his own folder into an inside pocket of his jacket.

"So where am I interviewing?" Clara demanded. She looked through the papers in her lap again. "I don't see an address."

"It's there. Back page. Good luck. We need some money, so do good." Those were his parting words. Clara stared at the shut door once he left, overwhelmed and stressed. She wished their interviews were at the same time so they could go together.

* * *

He was extremely cross with himself.

"You're being an old fool," he grumbled underneath his breath. "She's fine on her own. The toxins are out. Sure, this is parallel universe and following the laws of her own might end up getting her killed or skinned alive, but generally everything should go fairly smoothly."

After listening to him ramble on the entire ride, the woman beside him on the tube handed him a card for a mental hospital.

"I'm not mad!" He barked after her retreating form. "I'm cleverer than everyone here, you old ninny!"

No one sat beside him again.

* * *

The first thing he did upon entering the building for the British Airways tech department was run right into a hoard of tiny children.

He jumped back and looked down at them. And then he took a few steps back—so he was just barely out of the doorway—and glanced up at the building again. He looked back down.

"Have I gone to a primary school?" He demanded.

The nursery teacher—or perhaps babysitter, he couldn't understand the context of the situation—shook her head.

"Interviewer?" She guessed. "We watch the children of employees here during the work day. It was instilled by our late senior partner."

"Late because he died or late because he retired?" The Doctor asked. He caught movement from the corner of his eye. He looked down and watched a child with angel blond hair start pulling on the hair of another child. He pointed. "Little kids who bully go straight to baby he—"

"Come along, you lot!" The babysitter yelled loudly, turning to glare at the Doctor. She herded the children towards what the Doctor could now see was a back entrance that led to a tiny playground. He shuddered once they'd gone.

"I'm here for an interview," he greeted the lady at the front desk. "There was a bad babysitter who said she was recommending me. Not sure of her name, forgot to ask. Blonde hair. Young-ish, but not as young as she thinks she is." He paused. He leaned forward. "I'm not working with the children, am I? Because my dad skills are fairly rusty and I didn't like the look of that blond one."

The woman stared coolly.

'That blond one was my little boy."

He grimaced.

"Oh, heavens. I'm so sorry."

Her cool stare turned into a glower. She lifted a paper and cast her eyes to whatever words were on it.

"You must be…'a rude, Scottish elderly man with a sickly complexion and no concept of small talk'." She read off.

The Doctor leaned back, slightly affronted.

"No, I wouldn't think that I am."

She lowered the paper.

"Ms. Grisenko's sent instructions for you. You're to report to the conference room on floor eleven. Room 1123."

He sniffed.

"Well that wasn't so hard, was it?" He asked. He didn't pause for her to respond. He turned on the spot and walked off towards the (blessedly empty) lifts.

He made it to the sixth floor before it stopped. He felt his eyebrows draw up in horror when he saw the masses of people about to climb onto the lift. He flattened himself back against the wall, hoping more than anything that no one would brush up against him— and then he saw it was only one woman that was getting on. She'd been chatting with the giant group of others. She walked backwards onto the lift, still in conversation with those standing outside. It wasn't until she got near enough to smell that he realized who it was. He relaxed and reached forward to grasp her arm, shocked.

"Clara!" He exclaimed. His tone grew stern. She was supposed to be at an interview. "What are you doing here?!"

She turned to look at him. Her eyes found the hand that was locked on her bicep and she stared at it for a long moment before looking up to meet his eyes.

"Can I help you with something?" She asked.

Her tone was very cross. He knew her cross tone. He lowered his hand quickly and cast his eyes over her ensemble. He had no idea where she got such…professional dress. She'd been wearing black jeans and a button top. But now she was wearing a nice black skirt and a yellow silk top. He tried to remember if there had been any ladies' clothes in the flat, but he didn't think so.

"Where'd you get those clothes?" He demanded. He studied her eyes intently, and as he did, he noticed she looked extremely exhausted. She had dark circles underneath her eyes and the little, delicate lines at the corners seemed deeper and more noticeable. Her hair looked different too—longer perhaps—but it was pulled up so he couldn't tell for sure. He stared at the utterly befuddled expression she was giving him and realized that this was not his Clara. This was the Clara of this universe. And she seemed very tired. He stepped forward out of automatic concern. "Are you feeling poorly? You look terrible. You look like you need a week's worth of sleep."

When he reached into his jacket and removed his sonic, with the intent of scanning her for illnesses, she took a wary step back. She lifted a halting hand into the air.

"Stop." She ordered. She stared sharply at the sonic. "I dunno who you are, what you're going on about, or what that thing is, but I'd prefer it put away and you out of my personal space."

He faltered. He stared at her uncertainly as the lift doors opened at floor eleven. She didn't even spare him a second glance as she walked off, seeming entirely preoccupied with something that wasn't him. It made him feel pouty. Sure— maybe this was the alternate version of his Clara (all evidence pointed to that so far), but she should still care for him somehow. He followed after her without a second's hesitation.

"Stop following me." She called flatly. She hadn't even had to turn around. She continued talking with her face facing forward. "What exactly do you need? If you're a passenger on flight BA2595, I already had the vouchers sent out. Check your email, and if it's not there, check your spam folders."

He hated that she kept on walking. He sped up (which was easy with his significantly longer legs) until he reached her. He walked beside her and looked down at her as they walked on.

"I'm here for an interview." He said truthfully. "With the senior manager. His conference room is room 1123."

She shot him the most sardonic look. He came to a standstill when she did, and when he glanced up, he saw they were outside of room 1123. He looked at her, shocked and a little bit pleased.

"Copy Cat Clara! You're here for an interview, too." He realized. He reached forward and gruffly patted her shoulder. "No hard feelings when I get the spot."

She lifted her hand and reached up. She patted his shoulder harder.

"No hard feelings when you realize I'm the senior manager."

He was stuck in the same spot staring as she strolled through the doorway. It took him at least ten seconds to process that (and to get his feet to move forward).

"No." He said. He crossed into the nicely decorated room. This alternate Clara was already sat at the table with an opened file and a mug of tea. The Doctor got momentarily distracted when he spotted the bad babysitter in the corner. She shot him a humored wink.

"No!" He continued. "You're not the senior manager!"

"I can assure you that I am." She replied. "Dear God, this might be the worst start to an interview I've ever had."

He hovered in front of a chair. He realized just how much trouble he was in. To talk like that to someone you hoped to be your boss? Bad. To speak like that to a Clara? Horrendous.

"Oh." He said. He slowly sank down into the chair. "Ooooh. Ohhhhh. Oh."

His next instinct was to flee, to find a different job. He hadn't considered that he might run into the Clara in this universe. He knew there had to be one (especially considering the fact that one came up in the government system when he'd hacked to establish himself and Clara as citizens that morning) but he hadn't told his Clara as much. He'd told himself they wouldn't go looking for this Clara and he figured the odds of running into her were slim. But he should've known. She always found him. In every reality, in every universe. Clara Oswald ended up by his side.

He reached up and smacked his forehead.

"Of course. I can be so _daft. _Not as daft as you lot, but _daft._" He growled. He rose to his feet immediately. He told himself the pang of sadness he felt at the idea of walking away from this alternate Clara was just from curiosity's sake. He already had his Clara, so there was no reason to be so greedy to want to know another one. He turned on the spot, about to stroll quickly from the building with the intent to never, ever return again—when a child ran silently through the doorway.

She was impossibly tiny—short even for her age—and was obviously being chased. She padded lightly across the floor, fell to her knees, and then crawled behind Clara's calves. She crouched underneath the woman's chair and hid. The Doctor was about to get his sonic out and sweep the hall when another child burst through the door. His hair was mused up in the front, like he'd slept face-down all night with wet hair, and he was a bit older than the other child. He faltered at the doorway after scanning the room. His shoulders went down in disappointment.

"Mummy," he called. Frustration was thick in his voice. "Have you seen Poppy? I've been looking for her for _ages_. I think she's moving hiding spots."

The Doctor turned to look at the bad babysitter, realizing all at once that she wasn't _just _a bad babysitter. She was a bad _mum _too. But it wasn't her who responded.

"Hmmm, not sure." The alternate Clara said lightly. Her tone was teasing and he could _hear _her smile. "Could be here. Could be there. I'm not really at liberty to say."

_No._

The little boy sighed heavily.

"I never, ever find her." He sniffled. "I'm the worst at this game."

"Nonsense. You're great at everything you do." She replied warmly.

"I'm sure he isn't. Children are notoriously terrible at most things, actually," the Doctor said, once his shock waned. He gestured towards the little boy. "This is your…spawn?"

The little boy in the doorway seemed to deflate at the Doctor's words. His mother noticed.

"_My _children aren't terrible at anything." She snapped, defensive and cross. "They're great at _everything_. And yes, that's my son."

He turned and pointed towards the little girl, still crouching behind her mother's legs.

"And that's yours? You've spawned off _two_?" He demanded. But he only had to spot the tiny noses on both kids' faces to know who they belonged to. He scoffed. "Dear God, woman. Get a hobby."

The little boy finally spotted his sister. He jumped into the air.

"I see you! I see you! I gotcha! _Yes_!" He cried happily.

The little girl promptly burst into tears. She pressed her face into the back of Clara's calves and wept. Clara leaned to the side and reached under the chair. She stroked the girls' hair as best she could as she responded.

"I've got plenty of hobbies, actually. Not that it concerns you."

He crossed his arms angrily.

"Well, they look nothing like their father."

The new Clara lifted her eyebrows.

"I'm sorry?" She demanded. She looked at him suspiciously. "You know my husband?"

The Doctor looked away. He was suddenly _furious_ and he didn't want to admit why. He just knew he'd rather slam his head into the wall than suffer through the mental images of Danny and Clara raising _children _together. Of Clara marrying him, of her pregnancies, of their children as babies…no. He was sure he'd be sick all over the golden carpet.

"Sort of. Right prick." He growled.

This time, danger flashed in her eyes. She reached down and gave the little girl's arm a gentle tug. She crawled right up into her mother's lap, still sniffling, and Clara held her close, her eyes locked coldly on the Doctor's.

"You obviously don't know my husband if that's your opinion of him." She bit. She reached forward with one hand and shut his file. "I think this interview is over."

The Doctor clenched his fists.

"You're right. It is over." He snapped.

"Clara, I _know _I said I'd get the kids at ten, I'm _so sorry—_there was a little girl with a fractured—oh. Hello. Interview?"

The Doctor felt an overwhelming feeling of nothingness when he turned. He stared. The man stared back. He could feel his heart ticking in his head.

"I've lost it," he whispered. He took a slight step towards the man. "I've truly gone mad."

The man shot an uncertain look towards his wife.

"Um…is everything…all right?" He asked.

"This is my husband," Clara introduced. "Dr. John Smith. Goes by 'Doctor'."

The Doctor retreated backwards until his legs were hitting the table. He leaned back for stability as he stared at a perfect human replica of his last self. He shook his head.

"You can't be here." He breathed. He looked towards Clara and then back to the man. "She's Mrs. Smith?! Those are your—children?! You've had _two _children?! What—one wasn't enough? Isn't zero enough?!" He stopped. He inhaled deeply against his racing heart. He pointed accusingly at the man. "You can't be here!"

Dr. Smith looked down at his body. He glanced back up.

"It seems I am, mate." He said apologetically.

"Daddy, Miles finded me!" The little girl lamented. She jumped off Clara's lap and ran towards her father like she hadn't seen him in years. He lifted her up into his arms and hugged her with equal love. Despite the odd introduction—and the obvious stress he was under—he beamed so widely it looked almost painful. There was a single-minded love and attentiveness in the way he held his daughter.

"What? Oh no!" Dr. Smith responded.

The little boy leaned against his father's side.

"Well, I didn't really," he admitted. "The man did. But I'll get her next time."

Dr. Smith glanced up at the Doctor briefly. He reached over and brought the boy to his side in a hug before he leaned down to kiss his forehead.

"Your time is coming," he assured his son. He straightened and looked up at his wife. "Where are the rest of the kids?"

The Doctor choked on air. He coughed and sputtered.

"The _rest_? What _rest_?" He barked. "Have you two built an army with your—reproductive parts?!"

Mrs. Smith almost brushed into him as she crossed the room to her husband.

"This man is extremely interested in all aspects of my personal life." Mrs. Smith introduced. "I'm a bit suspicious and uncomfortable about it."

Dr. Smith leaned forward. Mrs. Smith did too. The Doctor reached up and slapped his hands to his face in chagrin as they kissed each other on the mouth, horrified and disturbed. His skin was crawling.

"No! This is—not _right_!" He insisted. "You're a Time Lord! You can't be a human! Come here, let me scan you—"

"Charlotte, I think it's time to ring security." Mrs. Smith decided. She aimed her words at the bad babysitter.

"No! No! I will not go! Not until I've scanned your husband!"

He was certain he couldn't be moved, but in the end, three buff men were more than capable in their feat to remove him from the premises.

* * *

He could not (and would not) accept that it was his past self.

Because if he did, he had to accept that it wasn't him.

* * *

Clara met him where he'd indicated for her to. He'd left a note in the folder for her and he was glad to see she'd actually rifled through the papers.

Her well-rested face soothed him for a moment. He felt his arms itch to pull her in for a hug, but he resisted. He set a brief hand on the top of her head instead.

"We have a problem." He greeted.

Clara deflated.

"No," she moaned. "No. I just got a job. We don't have a problem. Things are going swimmingly."

She screwed up her face in frustration and waited. The Doctor turned and scanned his eyes over the park until he located the family he was looking for. He stared and waited until Clara did as well.

"Wh…" she stopped. She moved closer and squinted. "Is that…me? Is that…"

She recoiled like she'd been hit in the face with a burning wire. The Doctor could feel her eyes on his face.

"How does that work?" She demanded. Her voice was shaking. "That's—you. The old you. Why are all those childr—oh, no. No way."

But there was no other way it could've gone. They watched as the children talked and cuddled up with Dr. and Mrs. Smith, with a familiarity children only offered their primary caretakers. The Doctor glanced towards Clara. She looked faint.

"It's a trap." The Doctor proclaimed. "I'm sure it is. That man is something evil. That's why we were dragged here. I just need to scan him. So what I need you to do is go over and introduce yourself."

Clara barked out a laugh.

"I'm sorry? You want me to walk over there and just _casually _introduce myself to my alternate self?" She demanded. "In front of her _children_?!"

He wasn't following. He looked back and tried to decide why that'd be so terrible. It'd do exactly what he wanted: distract the family entirely. He was only half-listening to Clara's reply.

"Need I remind you, Doctor, that most humans aren't aware of the concept of parallel universes as actual, possible things?"

"He's _not _a human." The Doctor reminded her darkly. He watched Dr. Smith reach over and wrap his arm around Mrs. Smith. He pulled her close to his side and grinned down at her, muttering something the Doctor failed to decipher from his spot. They looked cozy enough that the Doctor wagered they would copulate at some point. "He's building an army. A biological army. But for _what_?"

"You're being overtly suspicious and thick-headed again. What makes you so sure that can't be a human version of one of your regenerations?"

He grimaced in disgust as the parents dotted on their children. He had to look away. He looked towards his Clara instead.

"Because. It doesn't happen. It's never happened and it will never happen." He declared firmly. He whipped out the sonic. "So I've got to scan the lying, procreating thief."

"And really, five kids isn't an _army_, it's a decent amount but it's not enough to—"

He spun around and stared hard at his companion. Had the fake-Doctor's influence somehow cropped over her mind as well as Mrs. Smith's?

"What did you say?" He whispered.

Clara leaned back from him, her cautious eyes on the whirling sonic that was now facing her direction.

"Steady, boy. What's gotten into you? You're acting ridiculous!"

He gestured wildly towards his past alternate self. He was fuming.

"I'm acting ridiculous? _I'm _acting ridiculous? Look at that! That's-that should be _illegal!_ I want to vomit all over their picnic!"

Clara turned and followed his gaze uncertainly. He had to turn away as she watched the parents applaud for another son, who'd just done something that the biological parents obviously considered to be above average, but the Doctor knew was really just on track for his age group. He looked at the ground in disgust.

"Have they no shame?" Clara said sarcastically. "Being good parents to their children. How _dare they_."

He pointed the sonic at her again.

"Right, your sass is not appreciated, Ossie."

"Too bad, Doc." She shot right back. She hesitated for a moment, a wicked grin cropping up on her face. "Doc. That's a perfect equivalent to Ossie."

"No," he started, horrified. "No, no—"

His words ceased when he spotted two of the five Smith children running their way during a spirited race. He quickly reached over and grasped his tiny companion. He yanked her behind him.

"_What are you—_"

"Shh!" He ordered. "I'll explain in a moment!"

She fell quiet. The Doctor casually looked up at the sky as the children approached. He hoped Mrs. Smith wouldn't spot him and come over to give him a slap or something. He watched the two kids—two different ones than the ones he'd seen before (and one was at least eleven)—run right up to the other side of the tree he and Clara were standing beside. Due to the angle, it was pretty hidden from the Smith parents' view. Which made the Doctor certain they'd soon be coming this way in search of their children if they didn't hurry back.

Unfortunately, they didn't seem in a hurry. When they began speaking, their voices were low and secretive. The Doctor realized their placement was as deliberate as his had been. They were _trying _to stay out of sight.

"Okay, tell me now," the boy whispered.

"I've got two words for you: Last. Cornetto."

"I'm listening…"

"I might know the exact location of it. And I might be willing to give it to you. In exchange for some information."

"What _kind _of information?"

"I know Dad bought me a new telescope. Since you broke mine."

"It was an accident, Lottie!" The boy groaned. "And maybe he did…"

"I saw the page in the internet history."

"Maybe…"

"What I want to know is very important to me. And if you can get me a reliable answer, I will give you the very last Cornetto. I hid it for me, but you can have it. Are you on board with this?"

"Yes. Tell me what to do."

"There were _two _pages in the history. One for the Celestron Nextstar SE Series telescope. And another for the Celestron AstroMaster 114 EQ Reflector telescope. I need you to find out which one Dad bought."

"Why's it matter?"

"Never _mind_ why it matters, nosy! Just find it out for me, okay?"

"All right. I can do that. I know exactly where it is. I helped Mummy hide it."

"…why don't you just tell _me_ where it is?"

"Sure. For a higher price."

The girl sighed crossly. "Fine. Be that way. Meet me in the kitchen after dinner with the information and you'll get the Cornetto."

"It _better not_ be old and crumbled."

"It's not. I promise."

"All right," he said, a bit suspiciously. "Let's go back before El tells on us."

The Doctor didn't have to explain anything to Clara once the children scattered back towards their parents. She came out from behind his back and stared at the spot they'd be in. Her face was screwed with an uneasy expression. When she looked up at him, her eyes looked vulnerable somehow.

"Are those…_my _children?"

He blinked. He studied her eyes and wished that he still knew how to read every emotion there. This self has such a difficult time with it.

"No." He snapped. The question irritated him for some reason. "Do you remember birthing them?"

Clara faltered.

"No, but—"

"Those aren't anymore your children than your students are Mrs. Smith's—that's your Copy Cat's name, by the way. Don't let yourself think of those children as yours. You'll just confuse yourself."

Clara's eyes sought out that family again. She stared.

"But…are they? I mean…Mrs. Smith…and I are obviously of the same biological makeup— we're identical. So is it_ my_ blood running through those children's veins? If my blood was checked against theirs, would I read as their mother?"

"Yes. But so would Mrs. Smith." He said curtly.

He thought the conversation was over. He'd given her more than enough information to understand the concept. But she was still looking at the family with that same furrowed brow.

"So…who came first?" She wanted to know. "She's older than me judging by the ages of her children. But I'm the original, right?"

He realized the root of her confusion. He turned towards her fully.

"Oh. Clara, this isn't like your echoes where there's you and then copies of you. This is a parallel version of you. This is the actualization of the blueprint energy your life and path of existence has left in the cosmos. Don't think of it any other way. There's no…original Clara and clone Clara, even if it might feel that way. This woman—whoever she is—is a different woman when it comes down to it. She might have the same parents as you, might share the same basic outline of life events, but she's had unique experiences to you. And I think she might even be bossier than you are." He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

Clara fiddled with her hands as she processed all that. She looked up at him and then looked back down, like she didn't want to have eye contact when she asked her next question.

"So then why are you here as a human?"

He felt doors slam shut in his heart. He straightened his posture. His tone grew cold.

"I'm not. This is a trap somehow. He's not real. He can't be."

She ignored his outburst.

"But say that it was. Say that really was a human version of your last regeneration. What would it mean for that to have happened?"

He didn't want to answer. He stared off at the other families scattered about the park as he hesitated. He waited until he could feel Clara's impatient eyes on his face.

"Well," he started. He cleared his throat gruffly. "Well. If it were true—which it isn't—it would mean that I—he is part of your energy by now, like your parents are."

He turned his eyes to hers. She was looking at him softly, considering his words.

"So to the universe, you are my family." She summarized.

He quickly looked away.

"No. Because he's not real. That isn't what's happened." He argued stubbornly.

She pressed on.

"To the universe, you're more than just my family. You're the father of my children."

He cursed underneath his breath and reached up to press his palms over his ears. He didn't even care that it was childish.

"Except _no_, because he's _not real_!" He insisted. _And it isn't me. It's _him_. _

He was about to continue arguing, but then he stopped. While he'd been protesting, she'd turned back to look at the family, and he'd caught something in her eyes. And a twitch of her nose. He lowered his arms uncertainly.

"Are you sad?" He blurted.

Clara quickly turned to face him. She lifted her shoulders awkwardly—like she wanted to cringe but then thought better of it—and then shook her head.

"No." She lied. She nervously interlocked her fingers. "I just think I'd like to go somewhere else now."

He stared hard at her, even when she turned so her hair was a curtain in front of her face. He knew she was fibbing, but he wasn't sure what to do about it. He closed his sonic after a moment's hesitation.

"Fine." He allowed. He would do whatever would help her. It wasn't always like that, but he genuinely disliked seeing her in pain, no matter how stubborn he could be.

And he felt slightly guilty for keeping so much from her. He knew he should've told her there was a threat in this alternate universe (there had to be—why else would they've gotten sucked here?), but he felt telling her now might push her over some emotional edge. So he walked beside her and thought about taking her hand. He wondered if it would've made things better for her if he did. But then he remembered that it wasn't _him _the universe picked for her, so that must've said something about who was truly in her heart.


	2. Drown

**A/n: **Thank you for all the reviews- hopefully I can continue updating in a regular manner!

* * *

She felt ill and it was a sickness she couldn't speak of.

_Nostalgia for something that never was_ had no cure, anyway.

* * *

When they finally made it back to their temporary home, it wasn't so much a home anymore.

The real owner had returned. And it was a good thing they had placed no belongings inside, because they would've had no way to get them back. They hovered outside the block of flats and watched him carry bag after bag up from a cab, exhausted and unaware that two strangers had crashed in his home for a night. Clara sat down on the curb and pressed her forehead into her palm.

"Now what?" She demanded.

The Doctor paced behind her.

"Well," he began. He stopped. "…how much money have you got on you, again?"

Clara heaved a long sigh. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly in chagrin.

"Nothing. I bought something to eat this morning on my way to the interview."

She heard him stop pacing behind her.

"What?!" He demanded.

She lifted her head from her palm and turned back to look at him.

"I was _starving_! I thought things were okay for right now!" She defended.

"Well, of course you were starving! Your body used up all your stored energy to expel that toxin! But what are we supposed to do now?" He snapped.

Clara turned back around and lowered her head. She refused to answer, cross with him for putting it all on her shoulders. Eventually he joined her on the curb and they sat like that for a long while, thinking to themselves, not saying much at all. After her mind kept stumbling back to what she'd seen in that park, she made up her mind.

"I'm going to find myself."

The Doctor had been rubbing his temples for the past ten minutes. He didn't even glance up.

"You're a bit old to still be on that journey."

She rose unsteadily to her feet. She had pins and needles in her thighs from sitting for so long and she was sweaty and dehydrated from being in the sun. She decided it was hotter in this universe than in hers.

"I mean I'm going to find Clara, the other Clara, the Mrs. Smith Clara." She declared. It'd been a quick, rash thought, but as soon as she said it, she got attached to the idea. She nodded. "Yes. That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to tell her who I am and I'm going to ask for help."

The Doctor leaned backwards and looked up at her, horrified.

"No! No, no! Absolutely not!" He exclaimed, horrified. "We are not asking _them _for help! They're up to no good, or at least the male one is!"

Clara looked at him in exasperation.

"Are you _still _on that?" She asked in irritation. He glared and looked back down at his knees. Clara felt her eye twitch with withheld anger. She licked her lips and took a deep breath. "Okay. How about this. We can go see them, you can scan him _before anything else_, and then if he's human we can ask for help."

"No! I am not asking _him _for help!" The Doctor repeated.

Clara pushed her shoulders back. She looked down at him firmly.

"Well, Doctor, if you can't even get over your pride long enough to ask _yourself _for help, you've got problems."

She took off down the pavement half-heartedly. She didn't really want to leave him alone, but she didn't want to spend the night rough-sleeping either. Perhaps she just trusted and cared for herself more than she ought to, but she had no doubts in her mind that if she turned up at her own doorstep, she'd take herself in. Of course she would.

"What are you going to tell her?" The Doctor yelled after her. "'Oh, hello, I'm Clara Oswald from a parallel universe, can I sleep on your sofa for six months'?"

She slowed. She turned around. She was pleased to see he'd at least stood, even if he wasn't following her yet. With him it all came in steps. Small steps.

"Yes, actually. And I don't think the concept is going to be too much for her. If you remember, I understood these concepts for the first time just fine."

A step. Then another. Clara waited.

"Perhaps, but what makes you so sure they'll take you in?"

Clara waited until he was halfway towards her.

"Because I know myself, Doctor." She looked up at him once he joined her. He looked pouty, but she could tell he was coming wherever she went. She looked at him deeply, seriously. "And I know you."

* * *

A quick google search on "Dr John Smith London" gave them all they needed to know (and then some). Clara pretended the library printer was jammed and sent the Doctor off to "fix it" while she tried to absorb as much information on the man as she could. And it was an alarming amount. You could find out more than she liked to know with only a simple search. She discovered he used to be involved with neurosurgery, that he'd gotten his degree(s) at King's College London, that he'd been involved in some odd all-you-can-eat sweets competition two summers ago to raise money for some local charity. She learned that he took patients who couldn't make his NHS office times at his own home in his own spare time just out of the goodness of his heart. And she learned that he was very much the man she'd once known.

The article on his generous office hours provided her with a home address. She wrote it out on a spare bit of paper and stuffed it into her pocket. She'd never been to the part of London he lived in, but she knew it was nice. His entire life looked nice. There was a picture of him from that charity event printed in the newspapers, a child sitting on his shoulders and the rest of his family caught candidly in the background, and she stared at it until she heard the Doctor's returning footsteps. She was enchanted by everything in it. By his smile, the clothes his children were wearing, the fuzzy capture of Mrs. Smith's wedding ring. She wanted to know it all, but she couldn't and wouldn't tell that to the Doctor. She could sense that he felt threatened by the entire ordeal. The last thing he needed was to see her staring so intently at a picture of the family.

* * *

He got crosser and crosser the closer they got to the Smith home.

"Before you say a word, I'm scanning him." He insisted. It was the third time he'd told her that during the ride. Clara didn't even respond this time. She just sighed heavily and leaned her head against his shoulder, exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally from the day.

In that moment, all she wanted was some place safe to sleep all this off.

* * *

The house was accented in deep blues and reds. Clara knew it was theirs just from looking. She didn't even have to double check the address.

She was running through how to introduce herself as they approached the front door. She stared at the stained glass part of the door and lifted her hand to knock. But the Doctor beat her to it. He slammed his fist angrily into the wooden sides.

"Hello, hello! You've got a visitor!" He growled.

Clara shot him a dirty look. She spotted someone approaching, and she was about to step in front of the Doctor to try and smooth over his rudeness, but then she realized it was a child coming and not her alternate self. She panicked unexpectedly. She stepped behind the Doctor.

The door creaked slightly as it was opened.

"Hello?"

It was a little girl's voice. She sounded cautious.

"Hi. I need to come into your home straight away." The Doctor greeted.

The door was promptly slammed in his face. Clara felt her lips twitch up.

"Let me in, kid!" The Doctor pestered.

"No! You're a stranger!" She yelled back.

"And you've got your…"father's" chin!" The Doctor shot back. "Open it! Or at least go get your parents!"

"They're napping. Go away." She snapped.

She must've left. The Doctor snorted.

"Like that'll stop me," He muttered. He was sonicing the door open a moment later. Clara was horrified.

"Doctor! Don't just stroll in there!" She hissed. But he hadn't listened. She hovered in the doorway, a sudden prisoner to her nerves.

* * *

He hated their front hall.

He hated the warm orange of the walls. He hated the wooden floors. He hated the pictures covering what seemed like every inch of wall on the stairwell. He hated the little shoes scattered about, the school bags lining the wall on hooks, the pile of mail tossed haphazardly on the side table.

"Show offs," he muttered. He stepped up onto the bottom stair long enough to peer at one of the first photos. It was an old one and despite the nice matting and framing, he could tell it had some water damage on the edges. He studied the slightly familiar kids in the picture. He thought it was two of their kids at first, but then he spotted the date in the bottom right hand corner. He groaned and retreated until his back was pressed into the stair railing.

"Oh," he said. He rolled eyes up to the ceiling and then shut them in disgust. "Oh, God. They were childhood sweethearts. Kill me. Just put me out of my_ misery_."

He snooped through their mail for a few moments, begrudgingly curious about their lives.

"Bill, bill, bill, bill, bill, bill…God, these people need to be more financially responsible," he muttered. He flung the mail back on the table and walked over to the school bags on the wall. He opened the first one he saw and rooted around inside. He pulled out a blue exercise book from the previous school year and briefly glanced at the carefully printed words on front— Lottie Oswald-Smith, Year 6, English—before opening it up. He dismissed the drawing on the left and read what appeared to be an assigned writing activity.

_First there were stars and then there were people, but the stars didn't want to be people. They refused, but then space shook, and earth was made. Earth was lonely and it needed someone to live there and keep it warm. So the stars walked into the grass and formed humans. They were unhappy. It is still that way. The stars are better and most people want to be stars again. This is why they like to sleep. When you sleep your soul escapes and goes up into the sky, and there it returns to…_

He closed the book.

"That's more than enough of _that_," he muttered. He scoffed. "Stars were people and people were stars...although, well…I guess that's…technically…no, no! No!" He smacked his forehead. "The man's brainwashing influence is washing over me! I can feel it!"

He hurriedly dropped the book back into the girl's school bag and rushed from the front hall, his hands clasped over his ears. He didn't dare take them off until he wandered into a kitchen, and then he only did because he was momentarily shocked.

"Soufflé," he muttered. He hurried over to the stove and bent over. He peered intently at it. "Slightly deflated. That's Clara for you."

It sat wrong with him, though. It was completely forgotten. He stepped back and peered around at the rest of the kitchen. The floors needed a good mopping, there were far too many things stuck to the fridge (drawings, notes from teachers, good marks, pictures, holiday cards), and the right side of the kitchen table was practically groaning underneath what looked like every toy a child could ever want. There was an empty basket beside it, like a kid had dumped them all out and then forgotten about them. The Doctor looked back at that soufflé.

"What Clara leaves a perfectly good soufflé sitting on the stove?" He mused out loud. He narrowed his eyes. "A compromised Clara."

He walked back out into the front hall and took a left into what he presumed was the sitting room. He wasn't mistaken. The first thing he saw was a mess of blankets on the carpet. The kids were stretched out on it, half of them watching the film currently playing and the others sleeping. The Doctor crept into the doorway and then quickly moved to the side.

It was the laundry he spotted first. There was a basket of unfolded clean clothes beside the recliner and a small stack of folded clothes at the end, like they'd been in the middle of folding them and just gave up. Mrs. Smith was lying between Dr. Smith's parted legs—her back and head leaning back against his chest and her eyes shut peacefully. Her husband was half-awake, but only just. He was running his fingers up and down her upper arms tiredly, soothingly, his eyes locked unseeingly on the TV screen. It was an image of perfected comfort, like they'd done this same thing hundreds and hundreds of times. For all the exhaustion Mrs. Smith had shown that morning, she looked utterly and completely content to be where she was in that moment. She looked so happy and relaxed that the Doctor knew—just by looking—that he could've offered her the stars and she would've said no thank you.

It made his eyes burn in a way that infuriated him.

He didn't consider how bad it'd look as he stormed over. He stood behind that recliner, sonic in hand, and held it above Dr. Smith's face. The whirling jerked the man in question out of his reverie and woke up Mrs. Smith. The Doctor jumped back as they woke to read his results.

"What are you doing here?!"

"No. No!" He cried. He shook his sonic. He slapped it against his palm angrily, indifferent to the adults scrambling up from the recliner. He glanced up briefly and noted that Mrs. Smith looked ready to smack him in the face. He shook his sonic some more and then pointed it back at Dr. Smith for a second reading. That is, he would have. But Mrs. Smith slapped it from his hand before he could repeat it.

"Get _out of my home_!" She shrieked.

He stumbled back, intimidated for a moment by her defensive fury. He watched her eyes dart nervously to her small children, watching sleepily and confused from the plush carpet, their innocent faces wrinkled with concern. It was then that he noticed how frightened she looked. Behind her anger, there was genuine terror. Fear of _him_.

That was enough to send him running. But his Clara burst in before he could do anything.

"It's fine!" She said. She came to a stop in the doorway, her cheeks pink and her hair disheveled from running. She held her palms up. "I promise. I swear. He won't harm you."

The Doctor exhaled in relief. He retreated back from the imposing presence of Mama Bear Clara.

"Yes. I'm fine. I was just scanning your husband. Your…unfortunately _human _husband." He looked at the man sourly. He glared back, his fists clenched.

Mrs. Smith seemed locked in some sort of shocked haze. She hadn't looked away from Clara yet. The kids processed it all much quicker. It was the youngest who came to terms with it first. She inhaled in excitement so rapidly that it was almost a wheeze.

"Two mummies!" She breathed. She clambered to her tiny feet. "An extra one!"

She wasted no time running full speed towards Clara. Her parents stepped forward to grab her, but she was single-minded in her automatic, open love. She streaked past them and wrapped her arms around Clara's legs and hugged her so warmly that the Doctor caught a smile cropping up on Clara's face. She leaned over and stroked the girl's hair once, taken aback and unsure how to handle it.

"Poppy, get away," Dr. Smith ordered. He sounded panicked. But his daughter was completely at ease. To her, it wasn't complicated at all. There were two of her mum. And she loved her mum.

"Daddy," the girl who'd been at the door called. "Does Mummy have a secret twin?"

The eldest son was horrifying confused. He was staring with his mouth open and his eyes wide. And his eyes were Clara's eyes. They consumed half his face when he had them widened in surprise. (Those eyes were the very first thing the Doctor had seen).

"What?" Is all he managed to say.

The youngest son looked frightened. And their eldest child was pretty relaxed.

"Are you from a parallel universe?"

In all the chaos, the Doctor's mind narrowed in on that comment easily. He turned and snapped his eyes to the girl. She was average height for her age with dark, curly hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was looking at her mother's doppelganger fearlessly. He pointed.

"You. Curly." He called. She looked at him. "Repeat what you just said. The clever thing."

She bit nervously at her thumbnail.

"Parallel universe...?"

He nodded intently.

"Well," she began. She cleared her throat shyly. "I asked if she was my mum, but from a different universe than ours. I got a book on it at the library. It's possible. It is. Physics says so. There are millions of parallel worlds. Only you're not ever supposed to be able to cross between them..."

He stared. He could feel a strange emotion rising in his chest, but he suppressed it.

"Yes." He barked. She blinked and slowly lowered the nail from her mouth. "You're right. And your creation myth of earth is wrong, but stars _are _better than people."

"Wha—"

Her question was interrupted by her father.

"It's fine," he declared. He lowered his hand from his face and beamed around at them, relieved. "It's all okay. This is just a dream. I fell asleep in the chair. I'm asleep! Ha, ha! Only…I'm not sure why the kids and this elderly man are still present…normally it's just me and the two Claras…"

Even in her shock, his wife managed a skeptical look.

"In your dreams," she muttered underneath her breath.

Dr. Smith blinked. He looked down at his short wife.

"Well, yeah." He said. "Exactly."

Dr. Smith's youngest daughter let go of Clara and walked over to her dad. She gazed up at him lovingly, adoringly—and then she stamped hard on his foot.

"Ow!" He yelped. He yanked his leg up and grasped his foot, balancing crossly on one leg. He looked down at his little girl in shock. "Poppy!"

"It's not a dream, Daddy." She decided. "You would have waked up."

His bit out his words through clenched teeth.

"Thank you, _darling_," he gasped. "I'm starting to realize that."

Gradually, everyone fell silent and turned to the woman who was most shocked of all. She'd been staring blankly at the duplicate of herself, but with her family's eyes on her, she snapped out of it.

"…I need a cocktail." She said. She met Clara's eyes. "Want one?"

Clara darted her eyes to the Doctor once, but then she looked back at herself and nodded, a small smile rising on her lips.

"Yeah. I'd love one. I'll…come help. Assist. And we can chat?"

"All right." Mrs. Smith said tiredly. She was shaking her head and mumbling something underneath her breath about needing more sleep as they walked into the kitchen. Abandoning the Doctor. Leaving him with six expectant pairs of eyes pinned on him, waiting for an explanation. He sighed.

"First off," he began. "I won't have talking during my lecture. _Especially _not any giggling."

* * *

Clara didn't even know where to begin, so she decided to follow Mrs. Smith's cues.

After helping her mix two apple martinis, she sat down across from her at the table, stiff and unsure. The woman took long sips from her cocktail as she stared at Clara.

"How old are your children?" Clara finally asked.

She set the glass down on the table and looked at Clara suspiciously.

"Shouldn't you know that?" She wondered. "If you're me from a…parallel universe?"

Clara set her own glass down as well.

"No," she admitted. "In my world, I don't have any children. Beyond my students, of course."

She went off to explain the concept of parallel universes and how they were the same, but different, while Mrs. Smith listened and thought. Once she was done, Mrs. Smith posed her a familiar question.

"So…your friend. He's an alien?"

Clara pursed her lips to keep from smiling. She nodded.

"He is, yes. Are you okay with that?"

Mrs. Smith only had to ponder it for a moment. She nodded.

"Yeah, fine." She admitted. "Honestly, it's the parallel me that's thrown me the most."

Clara laughed. She leaned back, more at ease now that they were almost on the same page. She lifted her glass to her lips and smiled as she took a sip.

"You're telling me." She hesitated for a moment. She lowered her glass. "When you saw me…beyond _what the bloody hell is going on_, of course…what was going through your head?"

Mrs. Smith's smile was slow coming, but once it was there, Clara was surprised at how radiant it was. She felt her own smile widen.

"You tell me." She shot back.

"Honestly? I was thinking: _I look great._" Clara admitted.

Mrs. Smith laughed into her martini. She gestured towards Clara.

"Yes! That's what—I thought that, too!" She exclaimed. "Aren't you supposed to be your own worst critic?"

"Supposedly. But I'm not sure how much there is for us to actually critique." Clara tried to hold back a huge laugh as she took another sip. She hurriedly swallowed it. "Dear God—the Doctor's not going to know what to do with two of us, he has a hard enough time handling my 'egomania' as he calls it as it—what?"

Mrs. Smith's face had fallen so quickly that Clara felt her own heart panging. Seeing discomfort on the woman's face immediately made Clara feel that way, too. She backtracked.

"But he'll love you, I'm sure of it, after all he—"

"The Doctor?" Mrs. Smith asked.

_Oh_. Clara had avoided mentioning the eleventh version of the Doctor in her spiel, or anything about her personal life for that matter. She'd focused on the specifics: what a parallel universe was, how they crash landed, the fact that they were stuck for six months. Mrs. Smith had asked her some questions about her own life—as if to make sure Clara wasn't a past version of herself—but once she'd failed to answer any of them correctly, they'd moved on from all of that. Until now.

"Yes. But you can call him Doc since…I guess you call your…husband that? The Doctor?" Clara asked.

"Yes." Mrs. Smith replied. She seemed confused, deeply so, for the first time since they'd begun their talk. Clara watched her face and found she didn't have a hard time reading her at all. She could look into her shadowed eyes and read most of the emotions churning around inside of her. "You said our lives sort of…echo each other's. They follow the same basic outline with the same basic characters. So…that's your husband? That man is the Doctor in your world?"

Clara nodded slowly.

"Yes. You remember how I told you he's a Time Lord and he can regenerate— or change his form?" Mrs. Smith nodded. "Well. The version before that one looked just like your husband."

Mrs. Smith looked down at the table.

"And…regeneration. It happens when he gets hurt. It happens when he…dies." She stated.

"Mmhmm." Clara said gently. She watched the woman across from her. She watched herself experience the loss all over again. And it stung fiercely.

Mrs. Smith looked up. The pain echoing in her eyes was complete.

"He died." She realized. She swallowed roughly. "In your world, our Doctor died."

She hesitated.

"Yes. And no." She said softly. "That man out there is still…the Doctor. But he looks different and he has a different personality. But it's still the same memories, you know? And he still cares for me. But not in the way his last face did." She hadn't talked about it to anyone. She couldn't talk about it to the Doctor, and none of her friends on earth could understand. But she was sure that Mrs. Smith could. She licked her lips and looked to the side. "I care about the Doctor so much still. I always will, no matter who he is. But it's been very hard. Because his last face disappeared and I didn't have any time to…mourn him. I lost everything I knew about him. I lost his face, his hands, his eyes. Those eyes…" she trailed off, embarrassed. She blinked against the burning in her eyes and looked towards Mrs. Smith. The woman had the most pained expression on her face. "It's silly. But I lost his warm hugs and his love for fish fingers and custard and his ridiculous, boyish love for everything and anything. I lost the man who was in love with me. And I still love him, I do. I love _him_, that face. I love this face, too, but that love is still very much there."

Mrs. Smith observed her for a painful moment.

"I bet you wish it would go away." She whispered.

And it was exactly how she felt. Truly, to the core of her, she did. Because those emotions got to go away for the Doctor. He got to keep the memories but get rid of that…passionate, obsessive kind of love. He regained their friendship and his care for her, but he got to lose the part that made him miserable. It wasn't fair.

"Yeah. I do." Clara agreed. "But it won't. And then we come here, and I see you and your husband and your children, and it feels like I've had the breath crushed from my lungs. Because it's everything I will never have. It's everything I _never could've had."_ She hesitated before she admitted it, but then she remembered who she was talking to. Hiding anything would be stupid. "It's everything I ever secretly desired. Despite my better judgment."

Mrs. Smith pressed the side of her hand over her eyes for a moment. Clara felt like doing the same, but she let the tears build in her eyes. She wouldn't sob and she wouldn't weep, but she would let the tears fall.

Her parallel self said the last thing she'd been expecting.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. She lowered her hand and looked at her with red eyes. "I'm so, so sorry. I can't imagine. I truly can't. And I'm sorry for that, too."

Her sincerity comforted Clara, because she realized she hadn't felt so genuinely understood and accepted since her mother passed. She looked at the older version of herself and felt comforted by the compassionate way she was looking at her. That was the only reason she could muster a smile.

"It's not your fault. If anything, it's nice to know that in some reality he stayed. In some reality, we were happy. And you seem so happy. Please tell me that's true. Please tell me it isn't just a façade for outsiders."

Mrs. Smith reached across the table. Clara reached up and met her halfway before she even considered that maybe they shouldn't touch. But if their contact was going to tear a whole in the fabric of reality, it must've been a slow rip. Mrs. Smith took her hand and nothing happened. Except for the budding of a feeling of security in Clara's heart.

"It is true." Mrs. Smith assured her. "We're very happy. Always have been. But I don't want to rub that in your face; I don't want to make this worse. You two are welcome to stay here with us, but I completely understand if you don't want to. We can help you out with finding a different place to stay." She paused. She smiled almost teasingly a moment later. "No offense, but if I was you, I'd be _dying _for a shower."

"You are me, and I _am_." Clara replied. She could feel her tears pandering off. Her eyes were growing blessedly dry. "I thought I wouldn't be able to handle it, but if you'll have us, I think I'd like to stay here. Even if only for a weekend. I'm curious about your life. I'm sure you're curious about mine. And I want to meet your family properly. If that's all right with you. This is your home. I don't want to make it seem like—"

Mrs. Smith gave her fingers a light squeeze and then dropped her hand.

"You're not." She reassured her. "Why don't you shower and then we can talk to…your Doctor—"

"Doc," Clara supplied. "He loves to be called that." She suppressed her wicked grin. "Or at least, I love him to be called that."

Mrs. Smith laughed knowingly.

"Doc, then. You can talk to him, I'll talk to my husband, and we can go from there, all right? Come on, I'll take you to my room. You can borrow some of my clothes and I'll wash what you've got on. I think I've got a pair of black jeans almost identical to those, actually…"

Clara saw so much of her mother in her that she felt the alarming desire to hug her. She hoped—if she ever had children—that she'd remind people of her own mother, too.

"You're very kind." She admitted. "I really appreciate it."

Mrs. Smith shrugged as she stood from the table. Clara watched her carry their empty martini glasses to the table.

"It's a saying, right? 'Be the person you needed when you were younger'?" She turned back around. "How old are you, anyway?"

Clara stood from the table and pushed the chair back in carefully.

"Twenty-seven." She shared.

Mrs. Smith's smile was nostalgic and lovely.

"I loved that age, but it was a difficult one. Lottie was seven months old when I turned twenty-seven." She shared. She crossed back over to Clara. For once, Clara was able to talk to someone who was her same height. No more sore necks from craning her head up. Mrs. Smith's eyes were soft and sad. "I really needed a mum at twenty-seven."

Clara felt her heart swell with pain and affection.

"Me too," she admitted.

Mrs. Smith ran her palm lightly over Clara's back, but then she seemed to think better of whatever she'd been about to do. She nodded towards the door.

"I'll get you a towel— my and the Doctor's bedroom is that way. I can have him show you while I—"

"No!" Clara interrupted. She swallowed the horrible thought that had sprung into her head at those words. "I'd rather you."

Mrs. Smith nodded.

"Okay. Let's go grab a towel together, then. I'm really behind on laundry; most of the clean ones are still folded in the laundry room, the Doctor's been—sorry, my husband's been…"

Clara half-listened to Mrs. Smith as they walked through her house. But only half, because she was deeply interested in everything she saw. She wanted to stop in every room and take the time to look at all the trinkets and photographs, but she also wanted a shower. She still felt sticky from sweating outside earlier and she hadn't showered since the TARDIS had landed them there. She looked around at the stacks of the kids' folded clothes once they were in the laundry room, at the little pairs of tights air drying on a rack, at a familiar looking blue, collared shirt hanging right beside a dress that must've been Mrs. Smith's, at even the couples' _underwear_ folded and sitting in the same pile. The domesticity of it all left Clara feeling raw, but it wasn't as horrid as it'd been before. But perhaps that was just because she was standing beside someone who understood her. That always helped ease aches.

"Here we go." Mrs. Smith said. She passed her a thick, cream colored towel and a flannel. "This one is my favorite."

Clara smiled. She looked up at her.

"It'd be mine, too." She joked.

Mrs. Smith grinned back.

* * *

She stood underneath the hot water for a lot longer than she normally would have.

She bowed her head forward and let the water slam into her tense neck. She breathed shallowly against the steamy air and tried to suppress the pressure building up in her chest. She knew it would soon attempt to crawl up her throat, leaving her with no choice but to weep. But she didn't want to let it get that far. She wanted to keep it under her control. She wanted to keep this situation neat and tidy and idealistic. So she stood underneath the burning water and tried to retrain her thoughts to stop flying to the last image she'd seen of her Doctor. To the last thing he'd said to her. _Miss ya. _

If she'd known how fast he'd go, she would've looked at him more carefully.

If she'd known he would sneeze and rearrange so brutally, so suddenly, she would've made a point to memorize everything about his face.

If she'd known how utterly _gone _he'd feel, she would've told him how she felt then.

She should've said _miss you, too_, before the call ended. But to have said it would've made it real, and it was too much to handle then. It still was.

But she didn't, she couldn't, and she never would now. That was all there was to it.

* * *

Their bedroom was a paragon of comfort. Even though it wasn't hers, she felt safe in it, like it was some sort of protective space. She didn't think about the fact that it was the bedroom her alternate version shared with a man that was born from the blueprint of the eleventh. She tried her hardest not to think that it was extremely possible that they'd conceived some of those very children in the bed she was currently looking at. But she wasn't on point today.

She opened the wardrobe Mrs. Smith had shown her, but after only a few moments of looking through the clothing, she got so curious she couldn't stand it. She walked away from the opened wardrobe and wandered about the room. She took in the light, sky blue walls, the white duvet, the numerous pillows spilling over the top of the bed, the pajamas thrown carelessly on top of the made bed. She trailed her fingers over the books on the bookshelf, pleased every time she touched a spine of one of her personal favorites. She could easily tell which were Dr. Smith's and which were the Mrs'. She spent a lot longer than she meant to looking at the wall of framed photographs. She saw herself as a little girl hand-in-hand with someone who bore such resemblance to Dr. Smith that there was no one else it could've been. She saw herself as an awkward fourteen year old with an even more awkward preteen Dr. Smith. She saw intriguing photos of the two as young adults in varying landscapes—something that hinted towards a history of traveling—and then a beautiful picture of what must've been a wedding. Even though Mrs. Smith was not in white at all—having chosen instead a red dress that Clara herself owned. It was surreal after that, because it was all things Clara had never done before. Pictures of her pregnant (what an odd thing to see!) sitting beside Dr. Smith on a sofa. Pictures of tiny, newborn hands and feet, of itty faces and beaming parents, of growing children and aging love. For the first time, she wondered if the emptiness she sometimes felt was because she didn't have a family like this. But then she remembered that Mrs. Smith didn't have the ability to see the stars, to touch so many lives—and she wondered if she ever felt that empty ache, too.

They couldn't have both. That was something she'd learned and accepted long ago. But it was always a difficult lesson.

She settled on a pair of jeans that were so worn they were soft to the touch. She should've felt odd about going through another person's underwear drawer and borrowing a pair, but no matter how long she waited for the feeling to wash over her, it never did. She chose a bra and a short-sleeved cotton shirt—not wanting to risk wearing some of the nicer clothes. She knew Mrs. Smith was giving her time and freedom to snoop around, but Clara had seen all she wanted to right then. She had seen too much. She left the room and headed towards the sitting room, but then it was so easy to pick out _his voice _amongst all of them. And it happened like it always did. She struggled to keep her emotions under control for so long that when it finally got to be too much, it was a complete rupture of her self control.

She barely made it into a toilet. She closed the door behind her quickly (or she tried—it didn't close fully and stayed cracked instead) and sat on top of the closet toilet. She wept into her hands and fell victim to hundreds of images that she never wanted to see again, images that wrung her heart out until it was piecemeal in their hands. She was so paralyzed with suppressed sorrow that she didn't hear the footsteps. She didn't hear the door opening.

"Oh…"

She snapped her head up. She quickly wiped at her wet cheeks as she stared at the little boy. It was the Cornetto one, and he actually _had _a Cornetto in his hand this time. Clara guessed he'd finally worked out the scheme with his sister. He stood curiously in the doorway.

"Sorry. I didn't know you were in here. I'll wait my turn."

He went to back out, but then he stopped. He walked forward again.

"Why are you sad?" He asked curiously. He looked at her with her own eyes, wide and echoing with concern. And maybe it was only concern because she had the face of his mother, but it made her heart lighten a bit anyway. She sniffed and wiped the rest of the tears off her face.

"I'm okay," she lied. She forced a tearful smile on her face, but he shook his head immediately.

"No, no, that's my mum's lie-smile." He said. "She does that one with people who are sellin' stuff."

Clara looked away.

"It's difficult to explain." She told him.

"Oh." He said. She thought he'd leave, but he took a few steps in. "It's really bad when the things that make you said are hard to explain."

She turned and looked up at him. He was slightly blurry from the tears in her eyes, but she could see his father in him. She had to look back down.

"Yeah," she whispered thickly. "It is."

He was quiet for a moment longer. And then she found herself staring at that Cornetto. He'd pushed it right in front of her face.

"Here you go." He said. She straightened to keep from getting an accidentally face-full of ice cream. "When I'm sad because things I can't explain, Cornettos make me feel loads better."

Clara hesitated. She looked down at the messy treat he was offering. She remembered how excited he'd sounded to have the very last one. She remembered the lengths he'd agreed to go to for it.

"No," she said gently. She smiled. "No, that's yours. The very last one, right? Those always taste the best, don't they?"

He smiled, and when he did, Clara saw a dimple pop up on his cute face. She felt her heart swell, because it was _her _dimple. It almost frightened her.

"They do!" He agreed. He seemed excited to hear her say that, like he'd long thought that too and didn't know anyone else did as well. "That's why you should have it."

She sniffed. He'd already eaten some of it, and she didn't have an appetite at all, but he was looking at her so warmly that she couldn't imagine refusing it. She reached forward with a quivering hand and took it from him. He watched her take a small bite with a huge smile. He leaned back against the sink.

"Better, right?" He said. He didn't wait for her to respond. He was so confident in his quick-fix for sadness that he didn't need her affirmation. "My mummy said you might stay here. If you do, I'll hide you a Cornetto, too. Once we get the new box. My mum is going to the supermarket tomorrow."

Clara took another bite, less hesitant now. What did it matter if she was eating the same spots he had—he had her DNA, anyway.

"I'd like that." She said thickly. She didn't really care for the treat, but she cared about the fact that he did. She turned fully towards him. "How old are you?"

"I'm turning nine in thirty-four days." He declared, without missing a beat.

Clara thought to Artie with a surge of affection. She'd thought he was one of the last sweet boys of that age around, but perhaps not. In her world, most of the little boys were growing up too fast and turning cold at such young ages. Not this boy, though.

"How exciting! Are you doing anything fun for your birthday?" She asked.

"Blackpool! I'm going to see my Grandpa! He's my best friend. Even more than Anthony."

Clara felt ridiculously excited to hear a mention of her father, even if he drove her mad sometimes. She wondered if she'd get to meet this Dave Oswald. She wasn't sure if it'd be a good idea, but she wouldn't deny that she wanted to.

"Grandparents are the best. My Gran is one of my best friends, too." Clara told him. "And I just realized I never asked…what's your name?"

"Bristol. Bristol Finlay Oswald-Smith is the whole, entire thing, but no one uses that except my mum when I'm in for it."

Clara leaned forward. She beamed.

"Finlay is my favorite boy's name." She told him.

He wrinkled his nose.

"Arg, _why_? I don't like my name. Not any part of it. Have you ever been to Bristol? It's a place and it's rubbish."

Clara smiled at the way his face compressed with irritation. It reminded her oddly of herself and the Doctor all at once. In that moment, it didn't hurt. It was heart-swelling.

"I think it's a brilliant name. And I think you're a very kind and clever little boy. And thank you very much for the Cornetto. It helped a lot." She told him. She took a few more bites just so she didn't seem like a liar.

He beamed hugely at that.

"I scraped the freezer burn off myself!" He said proudly.

Clara resisted the urge to grimace.

"Oh, good," she said. She shot the Cornetto a hesitant look when he looked towards the door. She cleared her throat. "I'm actually so full—do you want the rest?"

He didn't hesitate a moment.

"Thanks!" He said. He took it from her outstretched hand and resumed eating it, indifferent to the fact that a stranger had just been eating it too. He chatted as they walked towards the rest of his family.

"In your world, what haircut do I have?" He asked, through a mouthful of ice cream. "'Cause my dad got me this one and we look alike. Do I look like Dad in your world, too?"

She came to a standstill. He looked up at her innocently, waiting for her answer. She didn't know how to say_ you don't exist in my world _without it sounding like he wasn't important.

"Well," she began. She chose to change the subject. She turned her head to the side and then gasped. "Wow, you _do _have your dad's haircut! I never noticed! Very cool."

It worked. He beamed proudly and looked up at her excitedly.

"Really? You think so?"

"Absolutely!" She gushed.

He smiled and turned back to his treat. Clara exhaled the breath that'd lodged in her throat.

* * *

When they returned to the sitting room, Clara was deeply shocked to see the Doctor sitting on the couch with the Smiths' eldest daughter, a book in his lap. He was either grunting affirmations grumpily or correcting whatever the girl was reading from the book, but Clara could see past his act. He might've acted like he was deeply annoyed, but if he really was, there was no way he'd still be sitting there.

Dr. and Mrs. Smith were in the middle of a conversation when she entered. She crept in quietly—not wanting to interrupt them—and hurried over to the Doctor.

"—no. No, this book is a travesty." The Doctor growled.

The girl glared at him.

"This is my favorite book. That's rude." She scolded.

"But I've _been_ to that constellation, Curly! It doesn't look anything like that! And the description is incorrect! It's so incorrect I want to throw this book across the room! It's a stupid book!"

She flung a pen at him.

"Then fix it, if you're so clever!" She said. She was cross and almost sounded tearful.

"Lottie!" Her parents scolded. They didn't even have to look her way.

But she wasn't really angry. Clara saw the intrigued way she looked at the Doctor when he immediately began sprawling words in her book. Clara was certain he was on his way to becoming someone else's hero.

"Have you ever seen V382 Carinae? That's my favorite star. It's a yellow hypergiant."

The Doctor replied with his head still bowed as he sprawled correction after correction.

"Oh yes, many, many times."

The girl's face was alight with so much wonder.

"When your machine is fixed, will you take me to see it?" She asked.

"No. Children aren't welcome on board the TARDIS." He replied bluntly.

Her face crumbled. Clara watched her reached across to her other wrist. She fiddled with a charm bracelet that had little stars and moons and planets, her eyes practically leaking disappointment into the room. Clara stared at her until she looked up by instinct. When the girl met her eyes, Clara winked. And the dynamic must've been the same in her own household with her own parents, because that wink soothed her. Mrs. Smith must've been the boss of her dad, too. And if Clara said they were showing that girl a star, they were showing that girl a star. Grumpy doctor be damned.

Dr. and Mrs. Smith finished up whatever intense conversation they'd been having. They walked over to join the small group, and it was then that Clara noticed the two kids hovering behind their parents with cautious eyes. The youngest was no where to be seen—Clara assumed she was napping, judging by the time of day and her age—and the other two were still not too keen on the entire situation. A delicate looking little girl and the youngest son remained behind their parents, even as Bristol joined the Doctor and Lottie on the couch and began to peer at the book, too. Their eyes communicated their uneasiness clearly.

"Ossie," Dr. Smith began. Clara shot an annoyed look towards the Doctor. He smirked, his face still bent over the pages. "You and Doc are welcome to stay here if you want to. We would be glad to have you."

She turned around and gave the Doctor a coy look. He looked as annoyed to hear _Doc _as she'd hoped. She stared at him questioning after she was done teasing. He shrugged, like it didn't matter to him either way, but Clara was sure he had a preference. She wondered if perhaps he just wanted her to do what _she _wanted.

"I think that'd be great," she said carefully. She looked down at the two kids. She kneeled down slowly and offered them a gentle smile. "As long as it's okay with you two. What are your names?"

The little boy looked to his sister. She looked up at her mum. Mrs. Smith nodded reassuringly.

"I'm Ellabell." She said shyly. She pointed towards her little brother. "That's Miles."

Clara nodded warmly.

"Ellabell and Miles. It's nice to meet you. How old are you?" She asked gently.

"I'm nine." Ellabell told her.

"Brilliant. What about you, Miles?"

He met her eyes for the first time. They were light and curious, but also fearful.

"Five."

"Five is a great age! Are you excited for school?"

"Sort of." He said. She thought he wouldn't say anything else, but after a moment of looking at the ground shyly, he looked back up. "I like to draw."

Clara beamed, relieved. She had something to go on now.

"I'll bet you're great at it. I'm not the best artist myself. Maybe you could show me how to draw some cool things later! If you want to."

He nodded bashfully and then darted back behind his mum's legs. But Clara caught the slight smile on his face before he did.

She straightened and looked back towards their parents. She still wasn't entirely certain this was the best idea, but she hated to leave. She hated to miss out on the opportunity to get to know these people. Even if it was already causing internal tension.

"We've decided to move Poppy into our room and Miles up with his brother. You can have Miles' and Poppy's room, it's right across from ours. The kids will be upstairs." Mrs. Smith explained. "I'll put fresh sheets on the beds."

Clara realized that that's probably what the two parents had been talking about. She also realized they didn't trust her and the Doctor enough to put them upstairs with any of the children. They had to put them across the hall, where they could keep an eye on them. But it didn't offend Clara. She was sure she'd do the same. She _was _doing the same, in a way.

"That sounds lovely, thank you," Clara said.

Dr. Smith smiled at her. Clara felt her throat narrow. She turned away and looked towards the Doctor, but that reminded her too much of how quickly she'd gone from looking at the eleventh to looking at him. And she was always glad to see him—truly, _always_—but that didn't mean it wasn't difficult sometimes.

She was quick to follow Mrs. Smith from the room.

"I'll help you," she offered.

She realized as she followed after the woman that she wasn't really afraid of the pain it'd cause to be in a room with Dr. Smith.

She was afraid of what she might do.


	3. Shipwrecked

The Doctor was entirely out of his element.

Clara sat down on the single bed and watched him stand stiffly in the doorway. He looked around the cheery, spring green room, his face furrowed with distaste.

"The color's terrible." He decided.

Clara flung herself back onto the bed and sighed up towards the ceiling.

He made a job of inspecting every inch of the bedroom. He rifled through the giant baskets of toys, he lifted the top of the laundry basket, he read the spine of every one of the hundreds of children's books on a wall-length bookshelf. Clara was too tired to try and rein him in. That was until he began shuffling through the wardrobe. She sat up tiredly.

"Exactly_ what_ are you expecting to find?"

He pulled a little dress from the wardrobe. He shook it in the air thoughtfully, but whatever he'd been testing for, it seemed to pass the test. He glared at it and hung it back in place.

"Something suspicious." He replied. "The Smith lot are all a bit too precocious."

Clara tiredly rubbed the side of her face.

"They're children. One's a _toddler, _for God's sake." She reminded him. "And if we're going to stay here, you really need to make an effort to learn their names."

He looked affronted. He waved her comment off.

"I already know their names."

Clara arched an eyebrow.

"Okay, what are they?"

He hesitated for a moment.

"Well, there's Curly—"

"Lottie."

He ignored her. "The Chin Returns, or Chin Jr., if you prefer."

Clara sighed. "Ellabell, and that's really rude."

"Brown-noser."

Clara felt a flash of protective anger. "Bristol," she corrected sharply.

"Shortie—"

"Miles!"

"And Pippie Longstockings."

"Poppy. So, to summarize, you don't know any of their names, not even the little girl you had an astronomy lesson with for two hours."

He blinked.

"Curly." He insisted.

"No. Her name is not Curly and you don't know her well enough to give her a nickname. Those are usually affectionate, not born from indifference." Clara corrected.

He sighed. He ran his hand through his short hair.

"Well, it's not my fault, Clara! It's yours. Why did your doppelganger name her kids such ridiculous names? Might as well give them acid tabs and drop them off in the late 60s!"

"Hmm," she began sarcastically. She leaned forward intently. "Let's think about this. Between my alternate self and yours, who might be weird about names?"

He stared.

"The woman named Clara or the man going by 'the Doctor'?" She pressed.

He looked to the side.

"I wouldn't like to say."

Clara rolled her eyes up to the ceiling.

"I wonder why," she muttered. She sighed. "Look. At least stop snooping through the kids' toys. They are _children. _Whether you like the parents or not, you cannot deny that fact."

He turned from one of the toy baskets. He had a stuffed dog puppet in his hand. "I know that. Trust me, I'm painfully aware of that. The tiny one wanted to sit on my lap." He shuddered, like he could think of nothing more frightening. He threw the puppet back into the basket angrily once he'd checked its insides. "I'm trying to figure out why we're here. _Here_, specifically. There's a reason we landed here and there's a reason we ended up with these people. I don't believe in coincidences."

Clara stared at him for a long moment. And then she rose from the bed and crossed over to him. She set her hands atop his shoulders and peered up at him, but he was still giving her only half of his attention. She moved her right hand up and cupped his cheek. It stopped him completely. He turned and looked down at her, his eyes boring into hers, his lips parted.

"Doctor," Clara started quietly. She studied his face and his tired eyes. "It's late. We've had a big meal and an exhausting few days. It's time to rest, okay?"

He began to argue.

"But we have to find out—"

Clara moved her hand. She gently pressed her palm over his lips and tried to ignore the texture of his mouth, the puckering as his words died prematurely.

"It's nothing that can't wait 'till morning. You've got a bed right here. With clean sheets and a clean duvet. There's a shower down the hall; …Dr. Smith's lent you some clothes. It's time to gear down, okay?"

She thought he'd protest again. But instead, he reached up and gently grasped her wrist. He pulled her hand free from his mouth. He kept his fingers looped around her wrist—his thumb stroking her pulse point—for a bit longer than necessary. And then he nodded.

"Fine. All right." He surrendered. He sat on the edge of his bed and began pulling his shoes off. "But I'm not wearing that man's clothing."

She figured she'd better not push her luck. One victorious battle was good enough.

"Fine. Whatever you like." She sighed. She pulled her hair up into a ponytail and turned politely as he presumably shed layers. She was already in pajamas. By the time she was underneath the covers, he was as well. But he hadn't shed very much. She gave him an exasperated look. "You sleep in your collared shirt? And trousers?"

He reached behind him and turned the lamp off. The room soaked in darkness, save the sun nightlight in the corner. Clara stared at the warm yellow light.

"No. I sleep naked."

Clara cast her wide eyes towards his bed, but it was too dark to make out his expression.

"Not in a house full of children you don't!" She ordered. "What if they come in in the morning? And you're lying there, nude as the day you were…well. You know what I mean."

"I'm not sleeping nude _now_, Clara. I wouldn't subject you to that."

The sour tone of his voice was not lost on Clara. She propped herself up on her elbow and stared hard at the dark mass on the opposite bed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She demanded.

He was quiet for a moment. When he finally spoke, Clara wished he'd just kept his mouth shut.

"I see the way you look at that man. Or, rather, the way you _don't _look at me. It's like having P.E. here all over again."

Clara felt her heart grow hot. It tightened, like a fist closing up in anger. She was too defensive to even process the latter part of his statement at that current moment.

"You have no idea what you see." She snapped. "Go to sleep."

She heard the bed creak as he shifted around, trying to get comfortable. She turned so her back was to him and faced the wall. She stared at the dark form, ignoring the fierce fire in her eyes. It was a dry, crackling heat. She didn't even think tears would satiate it.

"I also see the way he looks at her. He doesn't see anyone else. Not even someone who looks just like her, because it's her insides, too. No use even wasting your time. Just thought it'd be best to set you right. That's what _pals_ do, right?"

She wished he'd stop. She closed her eyes tightly and let her anger stir.

"He's married, Doctor," she said sharply. "And I'm in a relationship. I can't believe you'd even _think _that I'd try something. How dare you."

Her anger slammed hard into his indifference. It was cold. She had injured him deeply somehow, but she was too upset and tired to do much about it now.

"People will do surprising things to make themselves feel better."

"Shut up. I'm not talking to you again 'til morning."

"Yes ma'am," he muttered sarcastically.

Clara shut her eyes. She put her head underneath the pillow. She tossed and she turned and she even tried sleeping at the opposite end of the bed, but nothing worked. She could tell as time passed that the Doctor was equally sleepless, and the phrase_ never go to bed angry _flew to mind. But she smacked it back.

She must've been lying awake for at least two hours when she heard footsteps creak outside the door. The doorknob gave a slight turn, and when the door swung open to reveal Mrs. Smith, it gave Clara a start. For a moment, she'd forgotten. But then it all came back to her.

The woman in question was soaked in dim hall light, her eyes lined with exhaustion and her face makeup-less. She was wearing a T-shirt like a nightie, some old, stretched out, faded thing that Clara couldn't read the words on anymore, but she was certain there was a picture of a Jammie Dodger with a crown on it. She'd pulled a silk dressing gown over her ensemble but obviously forgotten to tie it. The autumn tree patterned material hung loosely off her shoulders and did nothing to hide her shabby pajamas.

"Oh, sorry," she hissed, once her eyes fell on Clara's. She scratched the inside of her wrist nervously. "I forgot. I woke up to check on the kids and—sorry."

Clara saw the Doctor give up on his façade. He sat up and turned towards Mrs. Smith. She looked even more bashful when she saw that he was up, too.

"Is everything okay? Can I get you anything?" She whispered.

Clara sat up slowly. She fumbled underneath the pillow for her phone, and when she checked the time, she saw it was as late as she'd assumed. Dr. and Mrs. Smith had both gone to bed a little bit after they tucked up the kids; Clara hoped her argument with the Doctor hadn't kept them up earlier.

"We didn't wake you, did we?" she worried.

Mrs. Smith took a half step into the doorway. She leaned against the frame as she replied.

"No, not at all. I usually wake up at least three times during the night, nothing to do with you two, I promise." She admitted. She reached up and ran a hand through her loose hair. "I won't keep you. You must be exhausted. I'm sorry for barging in."

"It's fine," Clara said sincerely.

"We weren't sleeping anyway." The Doctor commented dryly.

Mrs. Smith shot a quick, understanding look between the Doctor and Clara, like she'd caught onto their bickering easily.

"Oh? Can I get you anything to help?" Her tone suggested that she knew there was nothing in the world he needed. He just wanted to vent.

"No. I'm just waiting 'till morning. So I can talk to her again." He replied bluntly. Clara squeezed her eyes shut tightly.

Her last smile towards Clara was apologetic.

"Right. Night!" Mrs. Smith called.

* * *

She hovered between sleep and consciousness for an upsetting amount of time.

Her dreams were always hanging just on the edge of her mind, close enough that she could understand and sort of see them, but she was also aware of her surroundings, too. She heard every sigh from the Doctor as he failed to sleep, every creak of the mattress, every crisp yank of the duvet. She was checking the time for the millionth time when she heard movement outside her room again. It was nearing five in the morning, but it was a weekend. She didn't think anyone would be up that early.

She gave up on sleeping around ten minutes later. There got to be a point where continuing to try for sleep just got ridiculous. She crept to the door to go to the bathroom and brush her teeth, hoping he wouldn't hear—but of course he did.

"Give up on dreamworld?"

Clara didn't turn around. She rubbed her tired eyes.

"Sort of."

She could hear hundreds of words in the tiny sigh he gave. But he was just as unwilling to voice them as she was. She just didn't want to deal with it right then. She didn't want to deal with his jealousy, his sulkiness, his inadvertently cruel words. Most of all, she didn't want to deal with her own heart. She didn't want to feel any of the things she felt. She wanted them to just go away.

She bit her tongue as she slipped from the room, indifferent to the silent phrases tagging along behind her.

* * *

She almost missed him.

She was heading for the bathroom—tucked just past the stairs on the same side of the hall as the room she was staying in—and he was walking down the steps. He was drowsy and not all there, so it was understandable when he made his mistake.

"Clara," he sighed in relief. He shuffled down the steps towards her, his arms outstretched. Clara froze in place.

"I think El's finally asleep—I don't know what's gotten into her, she was practically in hysterics over some dream about a ghost-turned-rock-salesman in Blackpool."

Clara took a step back as he got close enough to touch. She could feel her heart slamming hard into her brain. But she couldn't let it win.

"I'm…not…_your_ Clara," she finally whispered, cringing back from his advances.

It took a moment for it to click. When it did, he was mortified. He straightened and blinked fully awake. His cheeks pinked and he reached up to rub sheepishly over his ears.

"Oh, Ossie—I'm sorry. I'm half asleep—I…erm." He lowered his hand to the back of his neck. "You couldn't sleep? Or are you an early riser?"

It hit her fully in that moment that he didn't really know her. He considered her a stranger, for all intents and purposes. Where Mrs. Smith embraced her as a long lost part of herself, he regarded her respectively, like he might an old university friend of his wife's that he'd never met. Clara knew it was probably the most sensible way to go about it, but it made her heart ache. She wanted to grasp his arms and say _don't you remember me_?

But he was not hers. He was not her Doctor. She would keep repeating that until she believed it.

"I couldn't sleep." She admitted. She cleared her throat and looked around the dim hall. Anywhere but his eyes. She stared hard at a huge framed world map, with pins covering a good majority of it. He'd been many places, but still not nearly as many as she had.

"Loads on your mind?" He guessed. "This is a lot to take in. Although, maybe not for you. Since you're a time traveler and all that." He hesitated. "You should try a hot shower. That's what my Clara does when she can't sleep."

Clara looked down at her hands and scratched nervously at the inside of her wrist. Until she remembered seeing Mrs. Smith doing that same thing. She dropped her hands and offered Dr. Smith the biggest smile she could muster, which wasn't much.

"Yeah, I might. Thanks."

He gestured awkwardly with his other hand towards his bedroom door. "Going to go find the missus. Goodnight!"

Clara watched him walk back to his bedroom. He shut the door after him and she saw the dark line of light underneath the door morph as Mrs. Smith presumably turned a lamp on. They'd mastered the art of whispering; she didn't hear a peep from them.

* * *

She slept for perhaps two solid hours before the commotion of breakfast woke her.

The Doctor was sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed and staring. Clara rubbed her face and glowered.

"Stop ogling. It's creepy."

He hopped up from the bed.

"I'm not ogling. I'm starving. It's about time you woke up." He grumbled.

Clara pushed the blankets off her slowly, tiredly. She could feel the Doctor's impatient eyes on her as she slowly sat up on the bed, every muscle weak from exhaustion.

"You can go on down, you know," Clara pointed out. "You don't need me to hold your hand."

He watched her shuffle towards the pile of borrowed clothing on the rocking chair. She rifled through them as he replied.

"Very funny. What if the kids try to sit in my lap again?" He pointed out.

Clara rolled her eyes.

"Well, you'll just have to deal with it."

In the end, it wasn't a risk he was willing to take. He sat on his bed facing the wall as she changed. He stood outside the bathroom door as she brushed her teeth and used the toilet. By the time she was ready to head downstairs, he was mumbling crossly underneath his breath about his plummeting blood sugar.

"You're a Time Lord," Clara sighed, exasperated.

He didn't reply.

When they stepped down onto the first floor, the first thing Clara saw was the youngest Oswald-Smith child. She was sitting outside the hall bathroom, her cheek pressed against the closed door, the most forlorn expression on her face. Clara exchanged a curious look with the Doctor and approached her carefully.

The little girl hardly paid her any mind as Clara kneeled down in front of her. She crossed her arms over her bent knees and turned her head to the right curiously.

"Whatcha doing?" She asked gently.

Poppy gazed up at her with tear-filled hazel eyes.

"I stepped on a bug and killed it to death."

Clara pressed her lips together uncertainly.

"Is that—erm. Were you…fond of this bug, or…"

Poppy ducked her head and let out the most pathetic sounding sob Clara had ever heard. She heard the toilet flush from inside the bathroom. The sink turned on a moment later.

"I _killed it _to _death_." She reiterated. And then she was full out weeping.

Clara felt her heart tumble to her toes. She turned to look at the Doctor. He rolled his eyes theatrically.

"I want my daddy, I want my daddy," Poppy sobbed. She set her palms against the wooden door and pulled herself upright slowly. She leaned against the door fully and cried into the wood. "_Daddy!" _

Clara anticipated it before it happened. In her mind's eye, she saw Dr. Smith yanking the door open in his concern. She saw Poppy falling forward. She saw her smashing her familiar nose against the tile. Clara reached forward and gently grasped the girl's shoulders as her dad predictably wrenched the door open. When he came into view, he didn't even see Clara. He only had eyes for his little girl.

"Oh, sweetheart," he began, his eyes softened with paternal love. He reached down and lifted her easily into his arms. She tucked her tear-soaked face into his neck and rested her palm over his heart as she gasped through her sobs. "I was only gone a moment. I told you I needed a wee."

That didn't matter to his daughter. She latched her arms around his neck like he'd abandoned her for centuries.

"_I'm a killer_!" She wailed.

Her dad stroked her hair soothingly. He pressed gentle kisses to her forehead, looking equal parts saddened and exasperated.

"No you aren't. It was an accident." He tried.

"_I'm a bad girl!" _

"What?" Her dad asked gently. "No you aren't. Of course you aren't. Who said you were?"

While Poppy struggled to reply, Dr. Smith extended his focus to more than just her. He lifted the hand on his daughter's back in a brief wave. Clara returned it awkwardly. She automatically turned, searching for Mrs. Smith.

"At the supermarket," Dr. Smith whispered. As if it was a common thing for people to automatically search for his wife when he was present, like they were always assumed to be two halves of one whole.

It was stupid, and unfair, but Clara felt a flash of irritation at the woman for leaving her. Like she'd abandoned her. Like she was her own mother and she'd failed to pick her up at the time she said she would.

"I said so!" Poppy finally replied. "The bug had a mummy and a daddy and now it has _nothing_! Because it's _squashed_!"

"All right," the Doctor snapped. Clara spun around, horrified to see him moving towards the heartbroken little girl. Dr. Smith looked equally wary. He looked like he wanted to break the Doctor's fingers off and shove them up his arse when he snapped his fingers above Poppy's face, drawing her attention towards him.

"Don't you click your fingers at her like that," he bit. "She's a person, not a puppy."

"Hush." The Doctor replied. He didn't even glance at Dr. Smith as he did. He peered down into the little girl's haunted eyes. "Pippie, what kind of bug did you kill?"

"_Poppy_," Clara corrected through gritted teeth. She was mortified by his manners. Dr. Smith was only growing crosser with him.

"A b-beetle! It l-landed on my b-buzzy bee's wheel! And I r-r-ran over it!" She could hardly get a word out without gasping.

"Well, you don't have to worry, because it wasn't a real beetle." The Doctor said flatly.

"Yes it was! It was! Guts came out!" She shrieked. Clara winced.

"They looked very believable, didn't they?" The Doctor asked.

She stopped. She watched him carefully, her tiny face furrowing in confusion.

"What?" She asked.

The Doctor nodded slowly. "That was my secret beetle robot. I've got them all over London. I'm listening out for bad guys. It wasn't real. Whenever it's hurt, it goes right back to my space ship, and it's fixed right up."

She didn't respond. She looked hesitantly towards her dad, her little hand rising up to rest on his neck. She tapped her fingers against his hairline to get his attention.

"Robot beetle?" She whispered towards him.

She trusted no other word but his. If this was going to work, he'd have to play along. And he seemed to know that.

"Yep. Doc has them all over town to keep us all safe." Her dad affirmed. Clara caught the guilt in his eyes only a moment later, like lying to his children caused him great discomfort.

"There, see? Your progenitor confirms it." The Doctor said. He patted the top of her head. "It's all fine. Now I need some yogurt. Do you have any yogurt?"

Her delicate face bloomed with excitement. Clara smiled at the Doctor, pleased and taken aback. She wondered what happened to his rule about not lying. He'd had no problem telling the harsh truth to child Danny. For the first time, Clara wondered if a part of himself recognized and claimed these children as being somewhat his.

Poppy turned some in her dad's arms so she could look fully at the Doctor.

"We have yogurt! I love yogurt! It's my favorite!" She exclaimed.

The Doctor wasn't even a third as excited as she was.

"Yes, well, I suppose it's many people's favorites." He replied flatly. "Why should it matter if it's yours, too?"

She looked at him for a long moment, her lips still parted and her small eyebrows high on her face, and then she turned to her dad.

"He is not very smart, I don't think." She whispered. Unfortunately for her, she hadn't quite mastered the art of whispering yet. Her dad patted her back and whispered something Clara didn't catch.

"Oh, great. I'm getting intelligence advice from a child." The Doctor muttered.

"It matters 'cause I'm here and all the other people aren't." Poppy informed him. Clara glanced up at the Doctor, impressed. He seemed to be struggling with something. After a moment of twitching lips and a cringing face, the smallest of smiles perked up his lips.

"Clever girl." He praised. "Why don't _you _show me where the yogurt is?"

"I can do that!" She declared. She craned her neck up and hissed something loudly towards her dad, once again misunderstanding the point of whispering. "Will you carry me to the kitchen?"

Dr. Smith leaned his head back and peered at her in exasperation.

"You're a brilliant walker, Pop, I think you could probably do it."

She wrapped her arms back around his neck and hid her face against his shoulder.

"I wanna be with you." She mumbled.

And, really, how could he say no to that? Clara knew she never could. She watched him press a kiss to the top of his daughter's head and then nod towards the kitchen.

"Here we go."

It was perhaps rude, but Clara hoped Dr. Smith would leave once he showed the Doctor where all the food was. She sat stiffly on the edge of a chair and watched the two men walk around the kitchen, opening up cupboards and drawers, her heart lodged nervously in her throat. She looked up in anticipation when they both approached her. With a swooping feeling of dread, she watched as Dr. Smith sat down across from her. She averted her eyes and turned to watch the Doctor sit beside her. He wordlessly pushed a bowl of yogurt and fruit towards her, not that she'd even asked for it. She wasn't a huge yogurt fan, but the gesture warmed her heart for a moment. She smiled at her Doctor.

"Thank you," she told him.

He gestured towards her with his spoon.

"You need to eat. Your skin is getting pasty and it's not your most attractive look."

He turned back to his meal without another word. Clara looked down at hers with a sigh.

Luckily for her, it was mostly just Poppy and her dad talking as they ate. The Doctor grunted a few things towards the two every now and then—he seemed to still be stuck in some sort of resentful attitude towards Dr. Smith, but he at least responded politely enough for the little girl's benefit. Clara watched him glower towards Dr. Smith as he cuddled his daughter and realized, all at once, that it was _jealousy_.

She didn't dive too deeply into that realization, because it made her heart sting, and she had enough aching to deal with as it was.

* * *

She was sitting on the sofa with the Doctor, pretending to watch something on the television as she waited for Mrs. Smith to return, when Poppy walked into the room. She was only hand in hand with her dad this time, which showed some sort of improvement.

"Is she attached to you like this every single day?" The Doctor demanded. He was watching the two with a grimace. "How do you go to work?"

"Not every day. Just when her mum's gone. She does the same to her when I'm away." He replied.

Clara looked to the girl, and when she did, she got a vivid flash of herself after her mother died. Of her hand desperately gripping her dad's. Of the thought that kept rebounding in her mind _I have to keep one. I have to keep one_. She wondered what a child that young was doing with thoughts like those. She wondered if something had happened to one of her parents to make her even subconsciously feel the need to cling.

She was so lost in thought that she didn't notice who Poppy was headed to. Until she was climbing right up onto her lap. Clara reached up and steadied her by instinct, her hands resting gently on her back. Poppy fell against her and rested her head on her sternum. Her arms wound around her neck in a hug. Clara felt the girl's fingers tracing her neck curiously, innocently, her breaths falling from her lips tiredly.

"Poppy, I'm not—" Clara began, but Dr. Smith cut her off.

"She knows." He assured her. "Unlike sleep-deprived me, she's got no issues telling you two apart. It's actually very fascinating."

Clara looked down at the top of Poppy's head, unsure what she'd done to deserve such a loving hug. She tentatively wrapped her arms around her in turn.

"My mummy wears a necklace," Poppy mumbled. Her fingers were still touching the back of Clara's bare neck. "It sits right here all the time. It has two hearts on it. My daddy got it for her a long, long, long time ago, before my Lottie was born."

Clara smiled. "_Your _Lottie?"

"Yes. 'Cause she's my family, so she's mine." She paused thoughtfully. "You're probably mine too."

Clara let her cheek rest against the top of the girl's head, but only for a moment. Her words were raw, honest, but soft enough that no one could hear them but her and the child.

"I'd probably love to be."

She was almost as relieved as the child when her actual mother returned. Poppy jumped onto the floor the moment she heard voices coming from outside the front hall. When they heard the door open, she took off sprinting towards the front hall.

"Mummy! Mummy!" She shrieked. Clara tried to remember the last time she'd been that happy about anything, but she couldn't come up with anything. Everything was so genuinely joyful in childhood. Adults lost that.

"Penelope!" Her mother exclaimed, sounding just as overjoyed herself. It made Clara second-guess her previous thought.

Dr. Smith edged towards the door.

"I'd better go help. We average about sixty bags a supermarket trip."

Clara had been in the process of rising to do the same, but she fell back down. Dr. Smith noticed.

"You can come help too, if you like!" He said hurriedly. He rubbed his ear nervously. "We could use as many hands as possible, I'm sure."

Clara reached over blindly and wrapped her hand around the Doctor's elbow.

"We'd love to help." She said.

"We mostly certainly would n—" the Doctor's objection died on his lips as Clara tugged firmly on his arm. "Oh, all right."

Dr. Smith gave the Doctor a humored look.

"Yeah, that's the way things go around here, as well."

The Doctor bristled. His jealousy flared.

"Well, _I_ love it." He snapped, as if he felt Dr. Smith was being unappreciative somehow. Clara looked at him in mild surprise. She knew he loved her bossiness, but she'd also never heard him admit it. "More than you do, obviously."

Dr. Smith furrowed his light eyebrows. His annoyance was light, humored. Like the kind he might've offered his children. "Mate, I've been married to my wife for nineteen years. It'll be twenty in October. We've got five kids together. I think it's safe to say I probably love it just a little bit more."

The Doctor bristled.

"Yeah? Well, Clara has been by my side for _thousands of years." _He spat back.

Clara was certain Dr. Smith would just walk away. But instead, he did something much worse. He stopped completely and looked at them. _Really _looked at them. Clara felt a bit self-conscious.

"And yet you purposefully keep a measured distance away from her at all times." Dr. Smith commented. His eyes traveled back to the Doctor's. "Interesting that you thought _I'm _the one who isn't appreciating my wife."

Clara felt her skin prickle. The animosity in the room grew to crippling degrees.

"You have _no idea what you're_—"

Mrs. Smith chose the best possible moment to walk into the room. She was swaying underneath the weight of at least fifteen shopping bags. Her youngest son was gripping her long skirt and sniffling, his light eyes fixed desperately up on his mum's face. Clara could hear the sound of two of the children bickering loudly in the front hall.

"Doctor, I so need you—"

Dr. Smith didn't even spare the Doctor another glance. He hurried forward and took eight of the bags. He kissed the corner of his wife's mouth gently and reached over to pat the top of his son's head soothingly.

"Sorry," he whispered. He lifted his voice as they both turned to walk back towards the hall. "EL! BRISTOL! CUT IT OUT! What's going on, Miles?"

"BUT DAD—"

"I DON'T KNOW ANYBODY CALLED 'BUT DAD' AND I'M NOT RESPONDING TO THAT."

Clara couldn't look at the Doctor.

"I hate him." The Doctor declared, once they'd left the room. "And why does he think you're my wife?"

Clara walked ahead of him.

"Why didn't you correct him?" She shot back.

He stopped in his tracks and didn't follow her to the kitchen.

* * *

Clara had wandered around the kitchen with a can of beans in her hand for at least a full minute before someone remembered that she didn't actually know where everything went.

Not that surprisingly, it was the youngest who picked up on it first. She had taken a firm liking to Clara and drifted between her and her mum, like they were two parts of the same person. She walked up to Clara and took her free hand.

"You need a tour." She decided.

Clara beamed down at her. Her shoulders relaxed as her heart flooded with warmth. She caressed the back of the girl's tiny hand lovingly.

"I do." She agreed. "Are you my tour guide?"

Poppy nodded firmly, seriously. She stuck her bottom lip out with determination.

"Yes. I am the boss of tours."

Clara pursed her lips to contain her laughter.

"Well, then you're the very best to show me." She declared.

Poppy pulled her over to the silverware drawer.

"Here is where the forks live, and the spoons, and the not-killing knives." She explained. She pointed across the room at another drawer. "That is where the killing knives live. It's locked."

"Pop," the girl's mother interrupted. Clara glanced over at her. She was standing beside Dr. Smith in front of the counter, where their two sons were sitting. The younger one was crying and the older one was dutifully patting the top of his head. Their whispered words had passed by Clara without any notice. "Don't call them killing knives. You make us sound like psychopathic murderers."

"Oh yeah," Poppy sang. She nodded. "Okay, Mummy."

She yanked on Clara's hand and began walking them over to Mrs. Smith. Her mother turned as she approached, an affectionate smile already blooming over her features. She looked less stressed today, even with the unknown drama going on with her sons.

Poppy looked up at Clara to make sure she had her focus. When she affirmed that Clara was still listening to her tour, she turned and promptly reached forward, yanking up her mother's shirt. Mrs. Smith quickly grabbed her tiny hand before the shirt revealed her bra, her eyes widened slightly.

"May I help you with something?" She asked her daughter incredulously.

Poppy dropped Clara's hand and reached up. She set her palm over her mother's bellybutton.

"And this is where I lived when I was a little baby." She shared. She stroked over her mum's stomach tenderly. "I liked it a whole bunch, but then the rent got too much, and there was an emergency evictat."

"Eviction." Her father corrected helpfully, his back still to them. He was hugging his youngest son warmly, protectively. Bristol was still patting his brother's scalp in what was quickly becoming a tired gesture, as opposed to the comforting one it'd probably started out as.

"Oh," Clara said with exaggerated interest. "How…exciting."

"There was so much blood. My mummy said it was like a whole entire ocean and it came from her body." Poppy shared wisely.

Clara snapped her eyes up to Mrs. Smith, mildly panicked.

"Placental abruption. She was an emergency c-section." She explained. She leaned over and lifted Poppy up into her arms. She hugged her and pressed a couple of kisses to her face. "I like you best out here, where I can hug you."

Her daughter wrapped her arms around her immediately .She pressed her face into her chest and smiled.

The conversation topic brought up a lot of curious questions Clara hadn't considered yet. She realized this was the only opportunity she'd ever have to sort of…get a peek at what her pregnancies would be like in the future, if she ever had any. She hadn't decided yet whether or not she wanted kids, but if her hunch about Orson was right, she'd end up there eventually.

"Later, whenever things are less…hectic, could we have a chat?" She asked the older woman.

"Things are pretty statically hectic, but let's go have a chat right now." Mrs. Smith suggested. She turned and passed Poppy to her husband. He took her without even glancing at his wife, like he'd expected it. Poppy immediately leaned forward and kissed her brother's nose.

"What's wrong?" She fretted.

"The pastry shop man kicked the bucket." Bristol hissed.

"Mr. Greg?" Poppy asked.

"Yeah, baby." Dr. Smith whispered gently. "He was old. It was his time."

"He was our friend. He always let us pick the icing colors for the day." Poppy stated slowly, like she was trying to make sense of it all.

Miles burst into tears. Poppy followed his example. Bristol reached over and began patting her head with his other hand. He met his dad's eyes.

"Don't you cry too; I only have two hands to pat with."

"I won't." His dad vowed. He leaned forward and kissed Bristol's forehead. "You're being a great big brother, Bristol. Watch them while I go comfort your elder sisters."

Clara turned towards Mrs. Smith guiltily.

"We can chat later. They're all very upset." She whispered. She swallowed the sudden, inexplicable surge of pain that made her throat ache. "They need their mum."

Mrs. Smith smiled at her sadly.

"They do. I do want to chat, though. We'll have tea later. What are you and Doc doing today?"

As she spoke, she crossed over to Miles. She pulled him off the counter and into her arms. He wept into her neck as she stroked his back.

"I…dunno. He's…well…we're…butting heads. A bit." Clara admitted. Mrs. Smith frowned at her and Clara panicked, worried the Doctor's poor attitude would get them put back out on the streets. "I've got a job lined up, though. For when the term starts back. So—if we're still here—I can pay rent and pitch in. I can help with the housework, too. And watching the kids. Anything, really. I was a nanny for a little over a year so I like to think myself capable."

Mrs. Smith rested her face gently against the top of her son's head. She rocked him back and forth slowly as he cried.

"You're more than welcome to stay here for free for as long as you like, but of course I'd be glad for any help you want to give. If Doc's interested, I'll give him the job he tried to interview for. I'm not sure he's my biggest fan, but I—"

Clara interrupted her. She couldn't help it.

"Oh, trust me. He's your biggest fan. He's our biggest fan. Besides Da— my boyfriend back in my universe."

There was a long pause. It was silent except for the sounds of the sniffling children.

"I thought Doc was your husband." Mrs. Smith admitted, confused.

Clara blanched. "Oh. Well. It's…"

"Complicated."

They both turned towards the doorway and watched the Doctor cross his arms stiffly. He strolled over to the other side of Mrs. Smith and looked down at Miles. Clara couldn't tell from her angle if the little boy met his eyes or not.

"A funny pastry man, wasn't he?" He asked. Clara could tell there was knowledge hidden in his light tone. Miles nodded his head against his mother's shoulder.

"Makes no sense why he would kill himself." The Doctor continued.

Mrs. Smith's reaction was volatile. She snapped her head to the Doctor and scowled.

"I don't know where you heard that, but that is _not_—"

"What you and your husband decided to tell your children? You decided to tell them he died naturally, of no fault of his own." The Doctor stopped. "And you're right, even if you don't know you're right."

Clara quickly edged over to the Doctor. She grabbed his arm and redirected his attention to her.

"Doctor," she hissed. "What do you know?"

He leaned his head closer to hers and lowered his voice.

"A man found hanging from the ceiling of a pastry shop this morning." He shared. He paused. "Covered with the words _not me not me_ etched into his skin with a blade."

Clara flinched back automatically.

"That's…horrific, but that could just be a sign of a really troubled—"

"He's the fifth one this season."

"—man." Clara finished lamely. She shot a quick look at her alternate self and then pulled the Doctor further to the side. "So do you think this is why we're here? Because—because it could just be a serial killer. Everyday old serial killer. Doesn't have to be aliens. Why is it _always _aliens?"

"I'm sure it's an alien. Do you want to know why?"

_Probably not_.

"Because _he—Dr. Smith— _is born from the most despised alien in the universe. And everyone who's died is loosely connected to this man and getting closer and closer still."

Clara turned and glanced towards the children automatically. Her stomach clenched with fearful nausea.

"What is it?" She asked. "What sort of alien? _Why_? How do we stop it?"

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, _aaaaand_ I don't know. But I better know soon."

She turned around and watched Mrs. Smith kiss her daughter's cheek. All she knew was that she wanted a happy ending somewhere.

"You'd better."

* * *

Now that the Doctor needed to watch and observe Dr. Smith, for the sake of his "investigation", he was less surly around him.

Clara and the Doctor were keeping their suspicions and fears quiet for the time being, but Clara knew she'd have to tell Mrs. Smith soon. She deserved to know that she and her family were potentially in grave danger. She deserved to take measures to help protect herself. It's what Clara would've wanted, anyway.

It took a bit longer than she'd thought it would, but she finally hit it off with Ellie and Miles. It took three more days living at the Oswald-Smiths, a few stressful supermarket trips, and quite a lot of stories of the stars, but eventually all the children felt comfortable around Clara and the Doctor to some extent. On the day she found Miles drawing old Egyptian pharaohs in his little sketch book, she decided to share a story with him. The perfect opportunity to read it emerged that night, when bedtime turned hectic thanks to the accidental kitchen fire Dr. Smith, Ellabell, and Poppy started during some science experiment. Clara offered to do bedtime stories with the kids as they cleaned up the mess. She hovered in the boys' bedroom with Mrs. Smith's copy of the anthology held in her hands.

"You know the story I was telling you about today?" She greeted. She walked into the room and perched on the edge of the bed. "One of the oldest written stories in all the world?"

He sat up, his eyes lit with interest.

"The Egyptian one?" He asked.

Clara smiled. "The very one. I have it here. Would you like to hear it for your bedtime story?"

He hesitated. He was extremely thoughtful and calculated for his age. Clara watched him mull the suggestion over in his head.

"Yes, but I still want my mummy and daddy to come kiss me goodnight." He replied.

Clara budged up on the bed beside him and leaned back against the headboard. She opened the book in her lap.

"They wouldn't dream of doing anything else." She assured him.

She opened the book to _Tale of a Shipwrecked Sailor. _Bristol had been across the hall in his sisters' room, watching some football thing with Lottie, but he wandered in right when she started reading and crawled up onto her other side, his eyes trained to the page. He was quiet as he listened, as was his brother. Clara noticed the Doctor's presence in the doorway halfway through, but he didn't come in. He just leaned against the doorway and listened.

"'I shall tell you of something similar that happened on this island where I was with my kinsmen and with children amongst them. With my offspring and my kinsmen, we were 75 serpents in all- I shall not evoke the little daughter, whom I had wisely brought away. Then a star fell. And because of it they went up in flames. Now this happened when I wasn't with them; they were burnt when I wasn't among them. Then I died for them when I found them in a single heap of corpses. If you are brave, master your heart, and you will fill your embrace with your children, kiss your wife, and see your house! This is better than anything.'"

_This is better than anything_. She could taste the cold, bitter acidity of those words. She risked a brief glance up at the Doctor, but all she caught was a swish of his jacket as he hurried off, his head ducked.

And she knew, now. Fully, completely. She found her answers in stories as she always did. She finished up the story, but half her mind was stuck on her realization.

It wasn't that he didn't care for these human versions of them or their children.

It was just that they reminded him of everything (everyone) he'd lost. And all the things he felt he'd never have again.

She hadn't even known he'd wanted them.


	4. Choices

**A/n**: this fic is officially post-Caretaker and _pre_-Kill the Moon from this point on, though things aren't really any more harmonious here. There's much more to come, so if something seems questionable come the end of this chapter, know it'll all make sense in the grand scheme come the end. Thank you so much for the reviews and I'm hoping to get review replies out today!

* * *

Someone or something out there wanted him dead.

Someone or something out there wanted him to suffer.

Finally, all was right in the universe.

Someone wanting him gone was normal. Someone wanting to punish him was understandable. It was this—his alternate self living happily that he didn't understand. He eagerly sank into what made sense and pushed away what didn't.

* * *

It'd been three days since the pastry shop man's murder (suicide?), and the Doctor was no further along in figuring out who was responsible.

He'd begun piecing together the sparse details, but he didn't get very far, thanks to his suddenly flaky companion. She seemed more preoccupied with helping children that weren't even hers than helping him, even though his matter was far more important than buying school uniforms.

After hitting another dead end, he decided he'd had enough. He would have to bring the matter to her attention and request her help, seeing as though she suddenly had tons of people vying for her time and attention. The Doctor hated sharing and he hated sharing nothing more than he hated sharing her. So he slowly and carefully ventured out of the room they were staying in (a dangerous feat because venturing out meant making oneself vulnerable to sticky-handed children's hugs) and began his hunt. He searched the sitting room first, careful to stay in the shadows. Pippie Longstockings was present and she was the worst. For reasons unknown to the Doctor, she adored him. He safely sank away without catching her attention.

From there, he searched the kitchen, but his Clara was not present. Dr. Smith and his second daughter were stirring something in a huge bowl. He checked off their locations in his head as he stumbled upon them all, and by the time he made it to the Smiths' bedroom, he'd accounted for every single person but two. He burst into the bedroom.

"Claras, I need—"

He stopped.

"What the hell is this?"

Both women looked up at him mid-laugh, identical strands of wet hair sticking to their cheeks. The photo album in his Clara's lap began sliding forward. She quickly reached forward and caught it before it tumbled down to the carpet.

"Hello," Mrs. Smith said. Her lips twitched against some withheld laughter. The Doctor scanned his eyes down their wet, towel-clad bodies, his mind struggling to put a context to this situation. Spa. They were having a spa. "How's your vague research going?"

"Terrible," He snapped, distracted. He looked to his companion. "I'm desperate for help on this one, Clara, and you're here playing spa with yourself!"

His Clara blinked.

"Playing spa with myself." She repeated back to him, deadpanned. "Explain how that one works; I'm behind on the new kinks these days."

"Yes, yes, very clever, very funny, now come along."

Both Claras arched an eyebrow. Deep down, the Doctor's heart quivered.

"Sorry?" Clara asked. She reached up and set a hand on Mrs. Smith's shoulder. "We're chatting. I'll see you when I see you."

He gestured, frustrated.

"You aren't chatting you're—wetting. You're all—wet. Why are you wet? What's the book got pictures of?" He demanded. He moved forward and leaned over them, peering critically at the page. He studied a photograph of Dr. and Mrs. Smith all decked out in graduation dress.

"You were right," Mrs. Smith commented to Clara. But she didn't seem eager to expound upon that much more in the Doctor's presence.

"Right about what?"

Clara ignored him.

"What do you need, Doctor?" She asked instead. Her voice was tired, the way she sounded when he'd worn his welcome. He recoiled accordingly.

"Nothing." He snapped. He stepped back from them. He stared down at them and noted their close proximity, their easy smiles, their familiarity. Everything he didn't have with himself or even with Clara, not really anymore. "Nothing."

Clara rose immediately.

"Doctor—"

"Go back to your wet spa party, Clara." He bit.

Her hand settled on his shoulder. She gripped tightly, drawing him to a stop. He didn't turn around to face her.

"No. What's wrong?" She asked softly.

He shut his eyes for a moment.

"Nothing is wrong. I just don't need you anymore." He lied.

"I don't believe that." She said gently.

He just wanted to make her rejection hurt less.

"Fine," he snapped. "I don't want you anymore. Not right now."

Perhaps it was too harsh. He didn't know because he didn't turn around to look. Her hand slipped lightly off his shoulder and then he was off.

"Curly!" He barked. He stormed through the home, looking for the preteen. "Curly, I need an assistant for my research."

She, thankfully, was eager to help. To her, all of this newly discovered alien stuff was interesting. To her, it was more useful than giggling with her hypothetical alternate self. He led her to his makeshift office/bedroom and pointed at the bookshelf. He'd tacked up dozens of sheets of paper with maps, diagrams, theories. Curly walked along the wall-length bookshelf and examined it slowly, and as she did, the Doctor saw so much Clara in her that he had to look away.

When she finally looked at him, it wasn't with anything quite so helpful.

"Does my mum know you've put holes in this bookshelf?" She asked. She lifted both her eyebrows. "We're not supposed to do that."

"Curly, there's some sort of invisible menace out there slowly killing people, and you're worried about your mum's anger?"

"Have you _met_ my mum?"

"…I'll fix the holes. But—look! Look. Scan your eyes over these papers. Tell me something I don't know. You might be human, but you're a Clara-human, so I think you're probably capable of doing that."

She looked back at them. She was quiet for a long time as she read each one carefully, intently. Seriously.

"You know," she commented. She glanced back at him. "My family knew every one of these people."

He hadn't put that on his charts or graphs. Clara had insisted they keep away from panicking the Oswald-Smiths until they knew something solid to tell them. The Doctor regarded her coolly.

"Really?" He asked flatly.

"Really. Some of them we hardly knew—like the bank teller—but we really, properly knew Mr. Richie Greg. For my seventh birthday he let us use the pastry shop and he taught my friends and I how to decorate—"

The Doctor leaned forward from his spot on the edge of Clara's bed.

"So," he interrupted. "What do you make of that?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly from being interrupted, but she decided to ignore it. She huffed and looked back at the wall.

"Dunno. What do you make of it? You're the alien."

"You're the one that's actually part of the targeted family." He shot back.

She turned, eyes wide.

"Targeted?" She demanded. "And you're part of it, too. Whether you like it or not."

He looked away.

"That's no way to talk to your elders. Don't be insolent."

She crossed her arms.

"Don't be thickheaded." She challenged.

"No, you don't be thickheaded. Watch it or I'll tell your mum."

"Don't be a telltale, either. That's the worst one of all." She scowled.

They stared, their eyes challenging, posture rigid. The Doctor refused to let a child beat him.

"So why do they want your dad dead?" He asked.

Pairing the words dad and dead together got him the reaction he'd expected. And then some. She immediately dropped her angry gaze and looked towards the door. Her eyes went from hard to aching in a second.

"What?" She asked. Her voice was thick and wavering. "Why would you ask that? How do you know about that?"

He balked.

"I—?"

"No one wants my dad dead. Don't say that! Who've you been talking to? That man is in prison where he belongs. I hope dies there. Don't talk about him around my siblings—they just got over it. You shouldn't say things about things like that."

He hardly even registered that he was being told off by a preteen. He leaned forward intently.

"Curly." He interrupted. He remembered Clara's cross words from the other morning. "Lottie. What are you talking about? Has someone tried to hurt your dad before?"

She dropped her teary gaze. She turned around and set her shaking fingertips against the book spines. He watched her trace them over the titles.

"I thought…nevermind. Sorry." She ducked her head so her hair covered her face.

"What are you talking about?" He persisted. He felt the strange urge to be gentle. Like not hurting her feelings mattered. "It's very important. If I don't know everything, I can't help."

His softened tone worked better than his barking one. She looked back at him, but her eyes fell to the floor right as she started speaking.

"My dad got stabbed a while back, maybe a year ago now. There was this loony at the supermarket. He started going after this girl and her gran and he was yelling something about silence. Then my dad tried to step in, but he stabbed him in the chest a bunch of times before he could stop him. He had to have surgery. He was really hurt. I saw my mum cry really hard for the very first time." She paused. She looked up and met his eyes. Hers were red-rimmed and her cheeks were wet, though he hadn't even noticed she'd started crying. "It was very frightening."

The Doctor thought to the way Pippie clung to her dad briefly, but then he crumbled up that thought and dismissed it. Not important. Right now, the facts were important.

"Okay. Good." He praised, though he wasn't even sure why he did it. He pointed towards the bookshelf at the stack of paper. "Can you write down everything you know about what happened?"

She obliged, and by the time he had that tacked up on the bookshelf, he felt a bit more confident. They both took a step back and stared at the wall.

"I wish I could get a DNA sample," the Doctor mused aloud. "Something's got to be wrong with your dad. If he's entirely human, there's no reason anyone should've traced him here, or even made the connection to me. Something must be wrong…"

He trailed off. Curly didn't bounce his ideas back to him in neat ties like his Clara did. He wished she'd come help him.

"You think he's an alien, too?" She asked. She furrowed her brow. "I thought your magic screwdriver said he wasn't. Does that mean I'm like…half-alien?"

"In your dreams." He muttered dismissively. "No, you're terribly ordinary. And my magic screwdriver did a brief, surface analysis. It wouldn't be able to pick up tiny gene abnormalities."

The insult rolled off her back. She tapped her nails against her forearm thoughtfully.

"So…is my mum full human? Or like thirty-five percent alien?"

"Your mum is one-hundred percent a short, bossy human." He answered definitely. "I wonder if I could sneak up on your dad at night and get a blood sample…"

He paced as he thought.

"Well, you know, I've got a DNA sample."

He shot her an annoyed look.

"Of course you don't. Unless you carry them around, which is rather strange and alarming."

He went back to pacing. The girl matched his pace.

"No, really. I have his DNA." She persisted.

He gave her a look-over.

"In your pocket? What? Be quiet. Pipe down. You can leave now; I'm finished with your help." He waved her dismissively towards the door. She stood her ground.

"No." She huffed, frustrated. "In my veins."

He stopped in place. His heart soared and he spun, his face opening up with a sudden, mad grin.

"Explain how." He demanded.

He'd meant how he could get away with taking her blood without getting crucified by her parents, but she took him a bit more literally.

"Okay, so, I'm their child, and it happens like this: a woman has ovaries and inside these ovaries there's loads of eggs and men have these little—"

"No. No, I know that—how could you think I don't know that? Why do you know that? I mean—how am I going to get your blood without your parents getting every bit of mine?"

Lottie crossed her arms defiantly.

"It's my blood. My mum says my body is mine and I can do whatever I want with it and no one can tell me otherwise."

He hesitated.

"I think the context for that conversation was something very different to what we're talking about right now…"

She straightened her posture confidently. "Still. It's my blood. You can't go cause a scene with my parents, 'cause then my siblings will know, and they'll be frightened. My parents will be frightened. We can just know. Us and Ossie. Like a team."

He watched her carefully. "And you're not frightened?"

"Sure I am. That's why I want to help." She turned her arm over, revealing a huge scrape. "I can pick this and make it bleed."

"No, no, I've got a lance somewhere…" he trailed off and glanced out the window, towards the general direction of Shoreditch and his sick TARDIS. "No, I should just go brief your parents. Your dad will give blood when I tell him how terribly at risk his offspring are."

He didn't admit that the idea of Mrs. Smith furious at him was a good bit intimidating.

"Terribly?"

Her eyes were her mother's and they were drenched in fear. He looked at her gravely.

"Horribly. And since you're the eldest, you're probably first on the list once they get this close. First borns are always sacrificed first."

She thrust her arms out, wrist up.

"Take it right from my veins." She said urgently, bravely. The Doctor patted the top of her head as he passed.

"Eager to be a martyr, are we? Unneeded at the current moment, but I'll get back to you."

* * *

He retreated to the garden and sat in the hot sun. He let the heat cook his half-baked thoughts. He strung up what he knew like damp clothes on a line. Something was after Dr. Smith (Mrs. Smith? Both of them?). It was something invisible. It made everyone have the same seemingly suicidal nervous breakdown. It couldn't be the Silence, that much he was sure of, even with Lottie's information on the loony man. Didn't mean it couldn't have something to do with them, though. It was most likely some sort of parasite—but which one? There were hundreds, thousands, millions, all strewn across the galaxy. He needed a motive. He needed to know why.

When he sought out Clara hours later, after his trip around London and many cups of coffee, she was in front of the oven with her knuckle tracing her bottom lip. She turned around and smiled when she saw him, the kind of automatic smile she used to give his previous face all the time. He softened automatically.

"Doctor!" She cried, elated. "Where've you been? I'm cooking tonight—Miles is sick and Clara's with him and John's away at the office at some emergency—"

The softness hardened.

"I've been trying to figure out what's after this family. While you've been locked away here playing house."

His coldness got to her. He watched the corners of her mouth fall at the same rate her shoulders did. She turned back around.

"It's been almost a week without any other deaths." She reminded him. "And they've arrested someone for it—I left the paper on your bed, did you see? I think it was just a coincidence. I don't think this is what you think it is."

He'd read it while roaming the city. But it was of no importance to him. The humans in London could believe it was a serial killer all they liked; he knew it wasn't. And they'd all know in due time when it started happening again.

"I already told you I don't believe in coincidences, Clara. Why do I even keep you around if you're not going to be of assistance?"

She stopped. He watched everything around her freeze. She didn't even breathe. He realized too late that he'd made a terrible mistake. She turned around slowly and met his eyes.

"Why indeed?" Her tone was brittle. She moved on before they could dwell too long on it. "Anyway, don't say anything to the Smiths about this. Not yet. I don't want to worry them. They've got enough going on and we don't even know if this is anything."

He dropped his eyes from hers. Her frown was so deep it looked painful. He tripped over his words in his haste to pave over his previous mistake.

"How—why are you so…interested in this family? You've met them. You've—you've cuddled all the little kids, you've had innumerous chats with your alternate self. What are you getting from this?"

She had the open-mouthed look of confusion she always had when he was being extremely daft.

"They're mine, Doctor. They're part of me." Her words were soft, incredulous. She looked away. "I truthfully don't know why you're not interested. I don't know how you can keep away. I saw you the other night, when I was reading. I know there's a part of you that wants this. So why aren't you taking advantage of the time we have?" She leaned forward, her words eager, gentle. "Does it hurt? Because…because I know, it hurts me, too. But it's not too late, Doctor. Maybe it'd never be like this, but you could still have a family, you could still—"

His heart went up in arms. He recoiled.

"They are not your children, Clara." He interrupted coldly. "They're Mrs. Smith's children. They're her children. She's the one who carried them, who gave birth to them, who raised them. In this world, you're a cheap copy. And they're not mine. I wouldn't want them to be." Once he started, he couldn't stop. He got a sick relief from the blows he was sending her way. "But I think I get it. It's more than just playing house. You're thriving on this. This is a fantasy for you. You want this with P.E. You want loads of little P.E. babies. You're afraid you'll never get them. So you're clinging to every sad, secondhand piece of maternal affection you can garner here. Time's a-wasting, right? You're what—almost thirty? Not much longer now. Maybe your chances for this life are over. Maybe you know that. Maybe—"

She regarded him with brimming fury.

"Maybe you should shut up." She bit.

He lifted an eyebrow. "Touchy spot?"

The words tore nastily from her. "Get out."

He scoffed. "Not your kitchen."

She pointed the wooden spoon at him. It was only the slight quivering of her arm that tipped him off to her hurt feelings.

"Get. Out." She repeated lowly, slowly.

He lifted his palms.

"Fine. All right. Shall I wait 'till morning to speak to you again?"

"You'll be lucky to get morning."

He slammed the kitchen door on his way out.

* * *

She fought back angry tears the entire time she cooked. By the time she'd put her creation into the oven for the final step, she could hardly take it. She was painfully full with sadness and fury.

She was on her way to find her counterpart, eager to vent to her in the free way the two women could vent to one another, only to cross paths with someone quite different. She quickly wiped at her wet cheeks.

"Hi, sorry," she took a step to the right to go around him, but he took a step to his left at the same time. They both hesitated awkwardly.

"You first," he said.

Clara ducked her head and moved to step past him, but his fingers on her shoulder stopped her dead in place. She shut her eyes for the briefest of moments. This Doctor would've never said that to me. She banished the thought as quickly as she had it. And then he ruined it all.

"Are you all right?" He asked gently.

She was horrified with herself as the tears swelled. She bowed her head and pressed her trembling lips together. Her shoulders shook pathetically.

"Oh," he said gently. He swallowed audibly. "Oh, it's okay."

She shook her head.

"It's not. It's not okay." She flinched when she felt his hands settle on her shoulders. He seemed equally unsure as he brought her forward into his arms, but once she was folded into a comforting hug, she forgot to be restrained. She fell into his embrace and exhaled shakily against his shoulder. She felt almost as lost as she felt when this man's doppleganger pulled her from his time stream.

"I want to go home," she whispered. The desire slammed into her, hard. She was tired and she wanted Danny and her flat and her students. As much as she was growing to care for this family, she wanted it to all be over.

"The time'll go by so quickly," he tried to reassure her. "I'm so sorry, though, Cl—Ossie. I can't even imagine."

She thought of his wife saying something similar when she'd told her of the last Doctor's death. She'd spent the past few days getting to know this family and its history extremely well—but she still felt on the outside when in a room with this man and his wife.

"The Doctor said something to me. And I think he's right."

"If it was something cruel enough to make you this upset, he wasn't."

Suddenly, the emotional comfort she was gaining from him felt dirty, wrong. It felt too intimate and too close. He seemed to realize that at the same moment she did. They pulled back from each other slowly, their eyes lowered.

"I don't understand him," she admitted. "For the first time, I don't understand. I don't know why he treats me like this."

Dr. Smith's smile was tinged with sadness.

"Perhaps he doesn't either."

It was a lot more likely than she would've liked.

* * *

When she finally found Mrs. Smith, she felt too guilty to vent at first. She helped her carry clean clothes to the kids' rooms for them to put away, quietly bothered, but she didn't fool the woman.

"Do you want to talk about it now?" Mrs. Smith asked her. She set down the last basket in the girls' room and then sat patiently on the edge of the bed. Clara couldn't help but smile for a moment.

"Sort of." She sat down slowly beside Mrs. Smith. She licked her lips and took a deep breath. She turned and looked at her. "What's it like to be a mum?"

Mrs. Smith smiled immediately.

"Oh, it's…" she stopped. Clara watched her eyes flutter around the room as she struggled to find the perfect word. "It's…full of wonders. It's painful and heartbreaking. It's the most difficult thing in the entire world; it's like ripping out parts of your heart and giving them away. And it's the most joyous thing, the most pure and good thing. It's something that makes everything else seem so little. It can bring such happiness that…you'll think you hadn't felt happiness before you were a mother. Not really."

It was everything Clara had hoped for. And feared. She looked down at her hands.

"I thought I didn't really care whether or not I ever did. Have kids. But this past week…"

She trailed off. Mrs. Smith was careful. Her words treaded lightly.

"Doc. Have you ever…"

"No." Clara interrupted quickly. Her words were sharp like a slap. "No. And besides, we've never so much as kissed. Not much opportunity there even if there was a desire for it. And that's assuming we're even biologically compatible in the first place."

"Would you ever…"

"No." Clara said again, but even she noticed how her tone went up. She was always lying these days. "Doesn't matter, anyway. He doesn't care for me anymore. I was wrong before."

"No way." Mrs. Smith argued. "He's our biggest fan, remember?"

"Terrible bloody way of showing it." Clara sniffed.

Mrs. Smith was quiet for a long moment.

"You know, I almost think the way people fail to show things says more than when they get it right. Especially when they hurt us. Because most of the time, it's just because they're hurting so much they don't know how to do anything else."

She was still too angry to believe that.

* * *

Two weeks trickled by with no further deaths and nothing suspicious at all.

Clara watched the Doctor go mad because of it.

If she didn't know any better deep down, she would've thought he wanted people to be injured. Every morning he grabbed the paper before everyone else. He retreated back into their shared room and poured over it for thirty minutes, searching relentlessly for information. But there was nothing to find. Clara was convinced he was searching for trouble where there was none, like he had with Robin Hood. Or perhaps she just wished for it hard enough to pretend. For once, she was content to live in the delusions.

She grew closer and closer to the family the colder the Doctor treated her. As he pushed her away, they pulled her in, and soon she loved them all. Genuinely, truly. She found in Mrs. Smith a best friend unlike any other, and in Dr. Smith she found a quiet, easy companion, and the children were hers in heart even if they weren't in reality. The more conflict that cropped up between her and the Doctor, the easier she found it to push away the conflict she felt with Dr. Smith. Sometimes it was more awkward to be in a room with the Doctor than it was him, and she knew that was a problem, but it took some time before she was willing to address it. She'd slept in the sitting room for four nights straight before she felt ready to make up with him. She missed him and she hated that she did. She just wasn't sure if he felt the same.

He was in the middle of going over the map of the victims for the thousandth time when she knocked on their door. He shared her a brief glance and then looked back at the map.

"Hello."

Clara curled her fingers around the doorframe.

"Hey."

He pulled the cap off a pen with his teeth and held it there as he circled something.

"So," Clara started. She let go of the door frame and crossed her arms. "How's it going?"

"Why aren't you with your new best—"

"No. No. Don't—don't start like that. Okay? Let's not start this way." Clara interrupted. Blessedly, he stopped speaking. Clara took a deep breath. She shut her eyes as she exhaled slowly. "Doctor. I want to know why you're so angry with me."

"I'm not—"

"Really had enough of the lies."

She thought back to Danny with a sick heart.

He turned his back on her fully and stared out the opened window, like there was something deeply interesting outside.

"I'm not angry with you. You just seem happy to be here, with these people, so I'm staying out of your way." He responded curtly.

She lowered her arms to her side and took a small step into the room.

"But they're not just _these people_. They're your family, too. Don't you see that? Don't you get it? The kids tried so hard to bond with you, Lottie more than any of them. You won't even talk to her anymore. Dr. and Mrs. Smith gave up after the third rude comment you made. I don't know if you feel…left out, or—or neglected, or ignored, or whatever, but you did it to yourself. And I hate that you did. Because I want you around. We all do."

She watched him spin the pen between his fingers. He didn't speak for an uncomfortable amount of time.

"Clara, I'm not like them. And I'm not like you."

_Here we go,_ she thought bitterly.

"Okay, yeah. You're an alien. You're a Time Lord. Right. But the thing is, Doctor. We don't care. I care about _you_. Always have."

"Then why?"

It was so soft she almost missed it. Clara took a few more steps. She curled her hand around the doorknob and pulled the door shut quietly, even though there wasn't much noise from inside the house. The kids had friends over and were currently in the garden.

"Why what?" She inquired.

It was so quiet she could hear the loud laughter of the ten children outside. For a moment she felt like she was back at Coal Hill.

"Why are you with P.E.?"

The question locked her in place.

"Sorry?" She breathed. "I don't…what do you mean?"

He turned around finally. His eyes were intense.

"Why do you keep P.E. around if you care about me?" He clarified.

Clara shook her head. "Because. Because I love him. Because…because my entire life isn't just you and your TARDIS."

"Why?"

"Because it can't be."

He looked down.

"It's not enough." He realized. _I'm not enough_. She heard it clearly.

She took a desperate step forward.

"It's not that. It's nothing like that." She struggled to find the words. "It's just…I want both, you know? I want to see the stars. But I also want…a normal life. I want this, you know? What Clara has."

He met her eyes finally. His gaze was so heavy she wished he hadn't.

"Which do you want more?" He asked.

She stopped.

"STOP! STOP THAT, ANTHONY! GIVE IT TO KARMA!"

"YOU AREN'T THE BOSS OF ME!"

"MY FIST'LL MAKE ME THE BOSS OF YOU!"

Clara lifted her palms and set them over her ears, for once feeling like she couldn't think with the faraway sounds of the kids. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"I don't know. I don't know."

"You're going to have to."

She opened her eyes.

"Eventually, yeah. Probably." She agreed.

"And what will you pick?" He demanded.

Her hands fluttered open uncertainly. She shrugged.

"Dunno..."

He turned away.

"Yes you do. Of course you do. And that's why I don't want much to do with this family. Because every time I see them, I see what's going to take you away from me. I see what I could never give you. What we could never have. And I hate it."

This time, he left the room without being ordered to. Clara stared at the papers on the wall and wondered, for the first time, if maybe he was so intent to find a villain because he wanted to prove that this life would always be with her, no matter how far away she got. That she would always need him above all else.

* * *

She was so sure she'd been unsuccessful in the mending that she was genuinely shocked to see him outside of the bedroom later. Even more shocking, he was sitting with Bristol, and they looked like they were having an actual chat. Clara paused in the doorway and leaned in slowly, hoping to catch what they were saying without them noticing her.

"—brilliant. And then she took off running, and it was following after her, and she led it right to me, but I'd forgotten to do the last code!"

The boy was hanging on every word. His brown eyes were wide with wonder.

"What happened?" He breathed.

"Well, then I did a giant flip over top of its head and wrestled it down."

Clara shot a cross look his way, but the amazed look on Bristol's face kept her from rushing in and setting the Doctor right.

"Wicked!" He exclaimed. "Can you teach me?"

Clara smirked.

"Well, ah, well, no, because it isn't very safe."

He frowned and kicked his feet dejectedly.

"Oh."

Clara felt a hand settle on her shoulder. She started silently and turned, relieved to see it was Mrs. Smith. She looked towards her son and the Doctor with an impressed expression.

"I know!" Clara mouthed.

"Doc," Bristol started. "Did you cry when you thought he was going to get Ossie? Because you were scared?"

"No."

Bristol rubbed over his ear. "Have you ever cried before? Anthony says boys aren't supposed to cry, only…"

He trailed off, his ears pink. Mrs. Smith read the answer the Doctor was about to give before he gave it. She stepped fully into the room and met the Doctor's eyes. The stern, furious look she gave him set him right.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah...I cry." The Doctor allowed, a bit reluctantly on his part.

Mrs. Smith walked over and sank down beside her son.

"Your dad cries, too." She added.

Bristol looked infinitely relieved to hear that. His shoulders depressed in respite.

"Oh, good."

* * *

He did a puzzle with Ellie a bit before dinner and then spent a long time listening to Lottie's preteen friend drama after that. Clara kept tabs on him suspiciously. It was what she'd wanted, but she was still a bit too unsure of his motives for her own liking.

"Rubbish. Friends shouldn't say that to friends." He scoffed.

Lottie crossed her arms crossly.

"That's what I said. And then Izzy said I was overreacting. I could've smacked her! Just because she's too busy with her stupid _boyfriend_…"

Clara found her focus drifting. The Doctor had his chin in his hand and seemed to be similarly unfocused, but he chimed in with the right thing every few sentences, and was generally a lot sweeter and more tolerant than Clara had ever seen him. She couldn't help but smile.

* * *

Two nights later, the kids were all tucked up when Clara sat down for wine with Mrs. Smith. Dr. Smith joined but opted for coconut rum and pineapple juice to Clara's amusement. The three usually ended the night like that in front of the television, and then Dr. and Mrs. Smith went to bed, and Clara slept on the sofa to avoid an awkward night in the small room with the Doctor. They were chatting quietly about the antics of Ellie's friend when they heard a deep throat clearing. Clara's heart skipped a beat when they looked up.

"Doctor," she blurted. He'd been continuing his social streak the past two days, but he'd yet to join them at night. She watched him take stiff steps into the sitting room. She gestured towards the open bottle. "Do you want a glass?"

The surprises kept on coming.

"Yes, thank you."

Clara shared a surprised look with Mrs. Smith.

Once he had a full glass, Clara budged over on the sofa. The Doctor sank down in the opened space. He sat so close Clara could feel his body heat touching hers. Selfishly, she loved it. She craved it. For a wicked moment, she wanted to shift over into his lap. She wanted to make him hers.

"Brilliant wine." He complimented. Clara cleared her throat lightly and slid over a bit, to hopefully purify her thoughts. She hadn't seen him drink any of his wine, but his glass was almost completely empty already. She leaned forward discreetly, but his breath even smelled like wine, too. She smiled.

"I think so, too." She swirled her wine around her glass anxiously as the silence trickled in. She knew the Doctor hadn't yet said anything to the Smiths about his concerns—she'd convinced him to wait until something else happened—but she felt now was a good time to at least let them know he had some worries. She didn't know when they'd all be together again. "Clara, you know the man who—"

"I was just thinking, Dr. Smith—your daughter got your football expertise." The Doctor interrupted.

If she wasn't suspicious before, she definitely was now. Clara watched the Doctor with narrowed eyes.

Dr. Smith laughed gleefully.

"So you're great at football, too?" He exclaimed. He paused. "Or…were. When you were…me? Ah, well, she definitely gets it from me…us. She's such a talented girl. She's going to go far."

It wasn't difficult to see that his children were Dr. Smith's favorite topic of conversation. He came alive. Clara was certain the Doctor had known that when he brought it up.

"I was fantastic at it, yes." The Doctor agreed. He took a sip of wine and then snorted into his glass. He looked at Mrs. Smith. "You know what Pip—Poppy told me earlier?"

Mrs. Smith smiled.

"Oh, it could be anything. She's mad." She said affectionately.

"She told me that her mum was born in a swimming pool. Truly, genuinely believes it. She got fairly cross when I tried to explain that she'd misheard, that you were born in _Blackpool_."

Dr. and Mrs. Smith started laughing immediately, their eyes alight with affectionate amusement. Clara chuckled along suspiciously.

"That sounds like Pop." Mrs. Smith smiled. "Doc, I meant to ask—did you want that job you interview for? I mentioned something to Ossie earlier, but I don't know if she said anything…"

"Oh," Clara winced. "No. I didn't, sorry."

"No, she didn't. But I'd love to work underneath you." He responded immediately.

Clara was certain she'd imagined the suggestive tilt of his words. Almost.

He lifted the bottle up by the neck.

"More wine?" He asked the Smiths. "I've been meaning to ask…how did you two meet? What's the story there?"

She was mindful about her alcohol intake due to her lingering suspicion. Unfortunately, the Smiths didn't know the Doctor well enough to be concerned, and they were not. The Doctor drank them under the table, and by the time they were opening a third bottle of wine, the Smiths were tangled up in each other and giggling sporadically through their retelling of their history. Clara had already heard the story, but she liked to watch the Doctor take it all in. He looked interested as he learned all about how Dr. Smith's parents had been abusive and ended up killing themselves; how he and his brother Ten had been placed in the care of his great aunt Tara who happened to live across the street from the newly-moved family Oswald; how the two had met at age six and became the best of friends, something that never changed, not even as they grew up. Dr. Smith's reckless proposal on Dave Oswald's sofa when the two were only teenagers, the year they spent traveling together, the years and years of university schooling and dodgy flats. Until finally the story ended up in present day. Their faces were flushed with laughter and alcohol by the time the story circled round. They looked happier than possible. Clara couldn't help but smile.

"All these years together. What an impressive feat." The Doctor commented. Clara wondered if she'd just imagined the dry tone to his voice.

Dr. Smith certainly hadn't heard it. He'd pulled Mrs. Smith in between his legs and he was intent on kissing the side of her face, each movement tender and lovesick.

"Wonderful years." He corrected. Mrs. Smith was nearly nodding off. Clara could only imagine how warm and loved she must've felt. Could only imagine because she'd never really felt it to that degree before. Jealousy was ugly and she refused to feel it. "My favorite things have stayed the same. I love talking to her, touching her, traveling with her…oh, Doc, you've gotta make things right with Ossie. You've gotta. You don't know what you're missing…you don't know, mate."

Clara braced herself for the Doctor to get angry and defensive. She began to bolster up her heart against whatever cruel response he'd have. But he was still smiling.

"You know, that speech is almost sad considering what your missus told me the other day," the Doctor laughed.

Dr. Smith pressed a lazy, uncoordinated kiss to his wife's lips. He smoothed her hair and nuzzled his cheek against hers.

"What was that?" He asked, but it was obvious only half his mind was even on the conversation.

"That she wished she'd traveled the stars instead of having children with you. Funny, considering you're so content with life, and she isn't."

There it was. Clara set her glass down firmly on the table, the Doctor's words sloshing around angrily inside of her. It was a lie and she knew what he was doing. He was weaving disaster in this life, disaster that might show her it's not as great as it seems. But if he was trying to prove to her that great love causes great pain, he was a bit late for that lesson.

"Doctor, don't." She snapped.

It took a moment for the words to seep into Dr. Smith's wine-soaked mind. He turned his head and shifted his wife to the side in his lap, so he could peer around her. She was staring at the Doctor with a dumbfounded expression.

"What?" Dr. Smith demanded. He looked between his wife and the Doctor. "No, no she didn't."

"No, I _didn't_." Mrs. Smith confirmed angrily. She was fully awake now.

The Doctor took another sip of wine. "You did. You were telling me all about how long you waited to agree to have children. How much your husband wanted them. How much you didn't. How you only did it for him, but then it go out of control, and now you feel trapped in this life, trapped by everyone and every wall and every boring, everyday occurrence, like birthdays and football practices and parents' evenings and karate lessons and laundry piles and—"

Clara was certain Mrs. Smith had never had a conversation lasting more than perhaps five minutes with the Doctor, but the way he wove his words, he almost made her believe it for a moment. Dr. Smith looked equally tortured.

"No," He repeated. "No, Clara loves her life. We're happy. This is what we both wanted."

The Doctor arched one eyebrow.

"Is it?" He challenged.

This time, Dr. Smith looked down at his wife. She looked up at him.

"Do you _really_ think I'd endure five pregnancies if I didn't want children?" She demanded incredulously. She turned to the Doctor. "What are you trying to do here?"

"Not other people, unlike your husband."

The angry, awkward silence peaked. Mrs. Smith slid off her husband's lap and stared.

"Excuse me?" She breathed.

The Doctor rose to his feet. Clara watched him pace back and forth with the air of a man giving a last speech.

"I've been observing for the past few weeks. Watching. And I haven't fallen for anything you two have tried to play out. You're desperate for a life of adventure free from responsibility, Mrs. Smith. And your husband is desperate for an adventurous life of sexual—"

"You will _shut up now_."

Dr. Smith had risen to his feet. The serious, deadly look on his face reminded Clara of the look her last Doctor got when faced with a terrible, earth-destroying alien.

"Why? Don't want me to continue talking? Don't want your beloved to know the truth?" The Doctor spat.

"No. I want you to shut up because there is no truth to anything you're saying. And Clara knows that." He looked at his wife after a moment, but what he saw made him do a double-take. He examined her troubled eyes. "Clara?"

"Ah," the Doctor said. "You see, she's not so sure. Because she knows that what I told you is true. So why shouldn't she think what I told her is true, too?"

Mrs. Smith blinked rapidly. She shook her head desperately at her husband.

"What I said wasn't that. He twisted my words. I didn't say that. I said that next to my life, Ossie's looked wonderful."

The Doctor pointed.

"Compared to Ossie's life, hers looks awful."

Mrs. Smith gaped, astounded. Clara could see some level of trust had been gravely violated.

"No. No! That's not what I meant at all! I meant, outside of my life, hers looks great! As in, if I didn't have this life, hers is the one I'd want!"

"But this is the life you have, isn't it? Nothing you can do to change that now. You're trapped." The Doctor said.

Dr. Smith looked wounded by his own uncertainy. Mrs. Smith looked at him desperately.

"You can't honestly believe this!" She breathed, horrified. "Oh, my God. You cannot seriously believe a word of this!"

He couldn't meet her eyes.

"I dunno, Clara. I've been worried about you lately. And then, well…do you remember when we got our fortunes told a few years ago in Blackpool? And do you remember what that woman said? Because it was the same thing. And she said I let you down, that—"

Mrs. Smith moved to Dr. Smith's side. She shook her head, her lips parted, her eyebrows drawn down.

"She was a fake! She cheated us! She was just making things up! I'm happy with you, I've always been, and if I wasn't, I'd leave. That's all there is to it."

Clara could've smacked the Doctor when he spoke up again.

"Could you leave?"

Mrs. Smith turned and looked at him distractedly. She was far too busy examining her husband's anxious eyes.

"What? Of course I could." She snapped.

He sank down beside Clara. He didn't seem to care how angrily she was looking at him. She wanted to slap her palm over his mouth, but she was horrified by what was panning out in front of her, enough that she felt almost paralyzed.

"You'd split your family up. You'd take those children away from their father?"

Mrs. Smith opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Dr. Smith buried his face in his hands.

"Oh, God," he groaned, tortured.

Mrs. Smith looked to Clara and the Doctor, confused.

"What…this…what are we even _talking_ about?! Why are we—I don't want to leave my husband! The thought's never even crossed my mind!" She exclaimed.

"I guess you get used to living a life of disappointment." The Doctor said coldly.

Clara snapped.

"Doctor, shut it!"

He ignored her.

"You must've had such big dreams as a girl. Did you ever imagine you'd end up like this? A hair away from forty with five mediocre children, a boring job, a dull husband. You could've been something amazing. You were born from the print of a woman who saved an entire planet and everybody on it from a fiery grave. A woman who saved a planet from a sun god, who took down the Great Intelligence thousands of times at the expense of her own life, who met Robin Hood and traveled to every end of the universe and back. And look at you. A mother. A wife. A somewhat underqualified technology specialist working for a sinking company with only a few good friends and a ridiculous amount of debt." He barked out a short laugh. "It's no wonder you wish you could take it all back."

Even in his confusion and uneasy hurt, Dr. Smith bristled.

"Don't you dare talk to her that way!"

"And you." The Doctor bit. "Aging, tired. Mortal and boring. I bet your love life's as bland as your taste in food. How many times a day do you wish you hadn't spawned any whining, bratty children?"

"Never."

"About as many times as you wonder what happened to the radiant, energetic young woman you married, I'd wager."

"I do _not_ think that!" Dr. Smith yelled.

"Shh!" The Doctor said. He pressed his finger over his lips. "The kids are sleeping. Like they are every night. Gotta keep quiet, gotta tip toe. Have to make sure everything you do is planned around them. Got to make sure you pick them up when they need it, that you buy the best foods, that you learn to become walking slaves to the little brats—"

"Get up." Clara said. She stood. She reached forward and grabbed the Doctor's arm. She pulled hard, but he didn't budge. "Get up!"

"You see this? Bossing is her job. But she's got bigger plans. See, she wants to be just like you, Mrs. Smith. Oh, I'm sorry. Mrs. _Oswald_-Smith. She wants to give up the universe and become a mummy instead. She wants to have little babies, maybe some sons, and they can do soldier marches and bully the other kids on the playground. Basically, she wants to become mediocre. She wants to be a rubbish mum who lets her kids get away with too much, too. She wants to pretend she loves them when really all she wants is to control them, like little wind-up dolls. They'll be fun at the start, won't they, Mrs. Smith? But then they'll get boring and useless. Just like every other stuffy—"

The time it took Mrs. Smith to rise and cross the room was hardly enough time for the Doctor to brace himself. The sound of the slap rang around the room painfully. The Doctor's cheek burned red almost immediately from the force of it.

"You have one hour to get out of my home." Mrs. Smith whispered. Her eyes flashed with a level of fury that was actually terrifying. "Don't you ever presume to know me and don't you ever speak of my family that way. You're so pathetically jealous, and cold hearted, and _sad_. You're not fit to claim to be my husband's other self."

The Doctor sneered.

"For once, we're in agreement."

And he was off, too. Leaving Clara and Dr. Smith in the worst silence she'd ever been part of. She blinked against her burning eyes and stared down at her shaking hands. She was so angry she didn't even know what to do. She didn't know where to start.

"He's supposed to be me." Dr. Smith whispered. Clara turned and looked at him. His eyes were brimming with tears. "He's supposed to be me, which means I have it in me somewhere to say those nasty things."

Clara parted her lips to argue, but she couldn't.

"Why do you stay with him?" He asked.

_Because he's all I have left of you_.

* * *

They all split apart and ricocheted to different areas of the house. Clara knew Mrs. Smith wasn't talking to Dr. Smith or anyone for that matter. She'd taken to her bedroom and had no interest in conversation. Clara wasn't sure what had hurt her the most, but every word the Doctor had said had torn into her. Clara was certain he'd done irreparable damage.

She was angrier than anything else. She hunted through the house for the Doctor, and when she finally found him, she couldn't stop the furious words from swelling in her mouth.

"You're a complete _prick_."

"I'm sorry I'm truthful, Clara." He dismissed.

"You're the opposite from truthful. You're cruel. You're greedy. You're selfish."

"Nothing I said was a lie."

"It wasn't the truth, either. How they feel is none of your damn business. You don't have the right to come into their home, to live in it, to be around their children, and then to tear into them like that. You don't have the right to try and split them apart."

"You need to see, Clara. This life isn't what you think. It's not what's right for you."

She was shaking. "And what makes you qualified to tell me what is or isn't right for me?"

"I'm the Doctor."

"And?"

"And you're Clara. And I know you best."

"No." Clara drew out evenly. "_I_ know _you_ best. You only know what I let you see." She couldn't stop anymore. "And you're a bloody idiot. You're so possessive, so horribly worried about me leaving you for Danny, and _it's not even Danny that the universe put me with_! The universe put me with you. I am here with _you_. And we have children. And we're in love. And you see that and you think it's a threat, that it's something to destroy. That's just so like you, isn't it? You ruin every fucking good thing you have. The universe put us together again, and you know what else?"

He was trying so hard to look unaffected that it was pathetic.

"What?" He asked.

"I'm starting to think the universe made a mistake."

She left before she slapped him, too.

* * *

She was so mad with anger then.

To the point that she couldn't think straight.

She just knew she wanted to hurt him, and in her madness, that's what she set out to do. Not thinking that it'd hurt other people. Not thinking that it'd hurt her, too.

She found Dr. Smith in the dark kitchen. He was in front of the kettle and his back was to her. It was so easy to cross the space between them. So easy to reach up and touch his neck, his shoulder.

"Clara," he whispered, relieved. "I'm so sorry."

She stared at the weak moonlight shining on his hair. She wrapped her arms around him and slid her hand up, resting her palm over his heart. His singular heart.

"It's okay," she said. "It's not your fault."

And it wasn't. It was the Doctor's. And she wanted him to walk in and see what she was about to do. She wanted to punish him for it.

She kept her face ducked as he turned around and promptly pulled her into his arms. She pressed against his body and hugged him with abandon, something she'd never done before, because he wasn't hers to hug like this. And he still wasn't. But he didn't know that.

"It wasn't true," he whispered fiercely into her hair. "You are amazing. You are the most beautiful and wonderful woman in the entire world. You saved my life, you made life wondrous, and you're a magnificent mother, you—"

She pressed her lips against his gently. The first time was for a taste, like that might be enough. The second time was for keeps. She reached up and gripped his face as she melded into the kiss. His hands skimmed up her sides, to her shoulders, up to her neck. She felt his fingers caressing along the back of it as his tongue swept over hers. She was pushing her hands underneath his shirt, completely caught up, when he suddenly jumped back from her. His fingers slipped from her neck.

The memory came back to her all at once. _My mummy wears a necklac_e, Poppy had said, as her fingers touched that same spot on Clara's neck. _It sits right here all the time._

"Oh, God," Dr. Smith whispered. He stumbled back. His hand was shaking as he lifted it and pressed it to his lips. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, no. I thought you were—oh, god."

Reality tumbled hard into Clara. The full extent of what she'd done hit home as she looked into Dr. Smith's shadowy green eyes. He was devastated and ill. He couldn't seem to stop shaking.

"She's—she's going to think I—but that isn't what—" He rubbed over his wet eyes and then he turned. "How could you do that? I've got to find her. I have to tell her."

Before Clara could apologize or even say a word, he was sprinting from the room.

She stood alone in the empty kitchen and touched her stinging lips.

The cold kitchen tile bit into her bare calves as she sat down. She felt like something was crawling from her chest as she broke down and cried.

He'd been hers first.

* * *

It felt like years and no time at all simultaneously when Mrs. Smith stepped into the kitchen.

She'd changed into her pajamas and her arms were crossed tightly over her chest. She was expressionless. Clara was still on the floor, her face soaked, her sobs wretched.

She counted Mrs. Smith's slow footsteps. One, two, three. Four, five, six. Seven, eight. She kneeled down in front of Clara. She turned and slowly sank down so she was sitting beside her. And without a word, she pulled her into her arms. A slap would've been kinder.

"I'm so sorry," Clara wept. Her throat was raw and aching from the force of her tears. "I kissed him. I let him think it was you. I don't know why —I've never been like this—the Doctor pushes me to the edge—I'm so sorry."

Mrs. Smith brushed her fingers through her hair lightly. She pressed her cheek to the top of Clara's head.

"I know," she whispered gently. Her tone with soothing and every touch of her fingertips leaked forgiveness. It was something Clara didn't feel she deserved. Mrs. Smith was the one who'd been ungraciously attacked by the Doctor. Any pain Clara was feeling she'd done to herself. "It's okay. I know."

"How can you forgive me?" Clara demanded. Her voice was almost croaky now.

"Because I know, deep down, you only have the best at heart. I know that in order for you to do something like this, you've got to be hurting." She said calmly.

A fresh sob tore from her. She'd never cried with this much abandon in front of anyone but her mum.

"I don't know why he's like this. I want him to go back to how he was. I don't know why he hates me now. Maybe I deserve it. Maybe I deserve to be hated by everyone."

It was how he made her feel, at least. Being abandoned with him for so long had worn her down. She was used to having her own life and her own friends and family to ground her. Without them, she was just the Doctor's Clara. And when she was that, how he felt about her changed everything.

Mrs. Smith's lips were a light pressure against the top of her head. She shut her eyes as she kissed the side of her face. She reached up and grasped her forearms gently, holding her to her, like she could somehow salvage this brief moment of affection.

"No, you don't." Mrs. Smith assured her. "And I love you. My family loves you. Regardless of what he feels, I care about you."

"Even now?" She had to know.

"Maybe especially now. Because now I know how much you need it."

Clara turned and looked at her.

"He really didn't know it was me. Please don't be angry with him. He was so upset. I took advantage of him."

The corners of Mrs. Smith's lips turned up. She sighed and looked down at her hands.

"Oh, I know," she reassured her. "Your friend tried his very best to turn us against each other, but he still doesn't quite understand the concept of marriage, does he? I know the Doctor better than I know myself. And he knows me just as well. And even if we have brief doubts, that's all they'll ever be. Brief. If anything, he only managed to make us dislike ourselves."

Clara turned her body to the side. She pulled her legs up to her chest and peered over her knees at the woman.

"You're a great mum. Don't listen to what he said. He didn't mean a word of it. He was just saying whatever he thought would hurt the most."

She smiled sadly. "Yes, well, he's very clever. He found every single sore spot."

Clara looked down at the tops of her knees.

"I understand why you want us to leave. I won't be angry. And I really hope we can still see each other while I'm still stuck here."

Mrs. Smith's voice was tinged with confusion.

"You would leave with him?"

Clara looked up.

"Well, I guess so. I dunno. He's kind of my ride back to my own life." It had suddenly become as cold as that.

Mrs. Smith thought for a minute or two. They sat comfortably in the silence.

"Don't go anywhere." She decided. "He doesn't have to either. As long as he can choke up a halfway decent apology. But for the record, that's only because I don't think you should have to suffer for his thick head. I'm not really keen on his company."

Clara smiled slightly. But it faded as the next words came to life.

"Clara, there's something I should've told you a while ago. About those deaths. The Doctor doesn't think it's a serial killer. He thinks…well, honestly, he thinks it's some sort of alien parasite that may or may not be drawn to John. We don't have much reason to think it, truly, except for my Doctor's intuition. But…on matters like this…his intuition is usually right. I don't know how much danger your family is in, but deep down, I think I know it's a lot. And even though it might seem counterintuitive, keeping the Doctor around is the best thing you can do right now. He wouldn't let anything happen to you or your family."

Mrs. Smith let her head fall heavily against Clara's shoulder.

"And I thought the night couldn't get any more exhausting," she whispered.

Clara smiled. "Welcome to my life."

It was quiet as they both breathed. She liked how it was always in sync, always matched up perfectly, like their lungs somehow sensed they were really one.

"He's so worried about our different lives, and the repercussions of the ones we've chosen, and what we feel about them, and what it means for him." Mrs. Smith realized. "But it's not like that at all. It isn't like it's two different lifestyles warring with each other. It's two different pieces of one whole. It's like this: I'll live this life to the fullest and you'll live that one. And together, we'll have had it all. We'll have done it all, seen it all. What could be better than that? What could be more beautiful? What could be more…complete? You see the stars and I kiss them goodnight."

Clara smiled softly, because she loved the idea of that. But she wasn't sure if it was true anymore.

"I don't know how much longer I'll be seeing the stars," she admitted quietly. It was the first time she'd ever voiced that aloud.

Mrs. Smith didn't seem worried.

"It will end up right. I know it will. I think he's terribly hurt, Clara. I think something is very wrong in his heart, something that's going to take so much time and care to mend. I'm not saying it'll be easy…I'm not even saying you should really have to put up with it. I'm just saying I think there's a part of him still there that adores you. I think it's more prominent than you think. And I think he could love you better than anyone. I think he could love you like you deserve."

She didn't want to hear that right then. She wanted to hear that he was hopeless, that she should give up on him, that Danny was the logical choice. Because it was the easier one. And she was worn through.

"We won't let anything happen to your kids. I promise. We'll sort out whatever is going on. Beyond all else, that's what we do."

When she curled up on the sofa that night, she decided she'd put all her energy into the possible threat from that point on. She'd first fallen for the Doctor in the process of saving the world. Perhaps they just needed to go back to the basics.


	5. Infection

He didn't like the way the stuffed toys were looking at him. So he gathered them up and shoved them deep into the back of the wardrobe.

He didn't feel guilty. Not one bit. And no matter how angrily the toys stared, he didn't wish he could take his words back.

But he did wish he could've gone about it differently.

He didn't expect anyone to come speak to him. His Clara had appeared once after their argument to inform him—in a flat, emotionless voice—that he wasn't going to be kicked out onto the streets, after all. But that he ought to start planning his apology. He'd scoffed and she'd scowled and that had been that. So when the door opened in the middle of the night, long after everyone had been presumably asleep, he braced himself for danger.

He wasn't too off.

She was a sight to behold in her nightie—even with the cross expression on her face. She'd thrown that same tree-patterned dressing gown on but failed to tie it, and only then did he notice the tie itself was missing, probably thanks to one of her children. She crossed her arms and tapped her fingers against her biceps uneasily, her lips pressed into a thin line. He wouldn't be the one to speak first. And he wouldn't apologize.

"It's obvious that you're so behind on matters of basic human kindness that it's going to take a teacher _and _a mother to catch you up. So sit up, shut up, and pay attention."

His eyebrows rose high on his face. She lowered her arms and walked right into the room, shutting the door hard behind her. He couldn't help the way he went a bit hot around the collar for a moment. He sat up automatically as she walked over and grasped the rocking chair in the corner. She dragged it across the floor and set it right in front of the Doctor, so close that when she sat, her bare knees almost grazed his. He stared at her exposed legs and then looked back up to her bare expression. There was injury there, and rage, and something he wasn't sure of. Loyalty, perhaps. Bravery.

"Mrs. Smith—"

"My name is Clara. Even if you're insistent on calling me by a surname, it's Oswald-Smith."

He hadn't realized how kind she was until she was no longer treating him amiably. Her coldness was like a slap to the face. He didn't think he deserved it.

"_Clara_, then," he bit out mockingly. "What is it you're here for?"

"What do you think I'm here for?"

He knew, but he didn't want to make this easy for her.

"I don't know. You turn up in the middle of the night, alone, half-dressed…well, one might wonder."

She stared. One second passed, two, three, four. And then her lips curled up as she began laughing.

"Oh, my God," she laughed. She lifted her hand and pressed it over her mouth, turning her face to the side as her laughter tumbled past her lips. "Oh, that's rich."

He scoffed.

"Right. I forgot I was talking to a Clara. You're just the same, just as vain, just as egocentric."

She lowered her hand from her mouth and turned to look at him. She shook her head almost in pity, and it made him so angry that he couldn't even speak for a moment. Every bit of nastiness he'd shared with his Clara was multiplied with this one.

"We're going to have a chat, Doctor." She began. The shift in tone made it clear they were getting on with her purpose and forgetting the brief argument. "A real, proper chat. I don't care how long it takes. We're going to empty our souls and when we're done, you're going to make things right with Clara."

"You're not going to tell me what I'm going to—"

"Shut. Up." She repeated lowly, sternly. Her eyes bore into his with such intensity that he found himself leaning forward. She didn't back down.

"It's like this," she began again. "I love Clara. I've accepted Clara into my heart, and that's bad news for you, because now there's nothing I won't do to protect her happiness. And right now you're the number one cause of misery for her. Which is ridiculously _stupid_, because I know you love her."

He felt a flash of defensive panic.

"I don't—"

She leaned forward and pressed her palm to his lips. Her eyes were hard.

"I am _not _done talking." She bit out.

He felt his eyes twitch. He resisted the urge to lick or bite her hand. She waited a moment, to make sure he was complying, and then she slowly pulled her hand back. She folded it nicely in her lap.

"There are two reasons you could be acting the way you act. One: you're honestly, genuinely a bastard and you have no regard for anyone else's feelings, emotions, or wellbeing. But I have a difficult time believing it's that one, because I see the way you look at her. The way you sometimes look at me before you remember I'm the wrong one. And then there's the second option. That you love her so much you can't even admit it to yourself. So much that it frightens you, that you've got all that…affection and sexual tension and _need _for intimacy buried inside of you, and you're taking it out on her—and even a bit on me, just because I happen to look like her, and I think it still pisses you off that I'm married to someone who looks like your last face instead of someone that looks like this one. And please, don't insult my intelligence or waste our time by trying to argue with me. It's late and I'm very tired."

He leveled the coldest look her way that he could muster. He didn't want her to see he way his heart was wobbling, off balance and vulnerable.

"You don't know a thing about me, _Oswald-Smith_."

She leaned back into the rocking chair. He watched the gentle motion it took. He imagined she'd rocked all her babies to sleep in it. He imagined her husband standing behind it and looking down at them, at everything he loved, at the surety of a beautiful, normal, _safe _future—

"That brings me to my next point. Your obvious distaste for me." She continued. "I don't think it's just residual frustrations about your Clara. I think it goes deeper. So what is it? What have I done—prior to this—to make you hate me so much?"

He was determinedly quiet. Mrs. Smith crossed her legs and watched him as she rocked, patient, intent on waiting him out. He didn't drop his eyes, but after a full minute, it was obvious someone would have to bow out, or they'd end up staring at each other all night.

"Do you want to know what my problem with you is?"

She looked up at the ceiling.

"Yes, Doctor. That's actually why I asked."

He glowered. "Beyond your sass, my problem is the waste of you."

He heard how nastily his own words curled. He wished for a split second that he could take them back.

She watched. She just kept on rocking. Back and forth, back and forth. He wanted to reach forward and grasp the chair and stop it.

"The waste of me." She repeated flatly.

"Yes." He had to look away to explain what he really meant. "You are…the most amazing human in this entire universe. You have the potential to do so much. And you're a mother. You're a wife. You spend your days at a draining job and you come home and you wash little kids' muddy socks and you…" he trailed off. "You're exactly who my Clara is going to be when she leaves me. And it's senseless. It's dumb, it's wasteful."

"It breaks your heart."

He tensed his jaw. "That is not what I said."

She leaned forward. Finally, the insistent rocking stopped.

"You didn't have to."

Their joined looked was powerful and hooking. He was having problems looking away.

"You can't change what she wants, Doctor." It was then that he realized she wasn't calling him Doc and hadn't since she walked in. It made his hearts swell for the smallest of moments. Her eyes had gone from hard to soft and he hadn't even noticed the moment it'd changed. "You don't have to…understand what she wants. But you have to respect it. I know there's a huge gap here; I get it. She's human and you're an alien and you might not understand why she could want this. But you have to learn to accept it and you have to _try _to understand. If you don't, she's going to end up leaving you. And when she does, it won't be because _she _didn't try. It'll be because you didn't."

He looked at her tired eyes and he mustered up every ounce of energy he had left to put it into words. He needed this Clara to understand. He needed her to know what it was, deep down, that tormented him.

"I can't accept something that will make her unhappy." He settled on. "I see your life and I see how you are and I don't want…_my_…Clara to end up that way."

Mrs. Smith was quiet as she absorbed those words. And then she leaned back slowly, her eyebrows furrowing.

"Do you…do you think _I'm _unhappy? Do you really think that?"

He scoffed.

"You'd have to be."

She licked her lips, her expression one of exasperation.

"Doctor, I'm really not. I'm very happy." She insisted.

He dismissed her words. "Rubbish. You don't have to lie to me. In fact, I thought we'd established we weren't going to disrespect each other that way anymore."

She closed her eyes as she exhaled slowly. She ground out her words with her eyes still shut.

"I am not unhappy."

"Sure you are."

"I'm not!"

"No one can be as happy as you insist you are. Not in this universe or in any other."

She snapped. Her eyes flew open and she slid forward, so she was perched on the edge of the rocking chair. Her frustration was at an all-time high.

"What do you want me to say, Doctor? What are you looking to hear?" She demanded.

He shrugged.

"The truth?"

Her eyes flashed.

"Yeah? Well, I'll tell you the truth. Where do you want me to start? How about we start with the children, since you seem to believe they're my own personal downfall. Sometimes my children annoy me so much that I make unnecessary supermarket trips just to take a breather. Yep—secret's out! Or how about I tell you about all the times I cry on my drive to work, because I'm so _incredibly _stressed, and overworked, and worried, and exhausted?"

He did not speak. She continued, her voice growing almost hysterical in her irritation.

"Or I could tell you all about how sometimes there are days or even weeks when I just really, really want to have sex with my husband, but we can't, because there's no time, or we're too tired, or we've got a toddler camped out in our bed for the duration of the foreseeable future because our bloody alternate selves turned up needing a place to stay. But, you know, I think I'd like to tell you all about the nights in which I wake up crying from nightmares that my children have died. Because despite all the pain, and the long hours, and the _frustration_—the joy my family brings me cannot be matched. Life isn't perfect. I wouldn't want it to be. And if you offered me the stars, I'd tell you to keep them. And you already knew all that. I can see it in your eyes. You know deep down that I'm happy, and so that means you're not really concerned about Clara's happiness if she chooses to leave you. You're worried about your own."

He felt she'd thrown every bit of insult back in his face that he'd slung at her earlier. He felt offended, raw, wounded. He couldn't meet her eyes. It was the first time anyone had demanded so much of him.

"You're foolish."

She didn't even bother saying anything back, like she knew he was only insulting her for lack of knowing how to respond, and that frustrated him even more. Little grains of truth were slipping past his tightly clenched palms.

"You're my Clara, too." He growled.

She paused. "I'm sorry?"

He looked up at her. He met her large eyes. He let himself fall into them for a moment.

"You are my Clara, too. You are her and she is mine. In every universe, in every reality. I worry for you. And I don't think anyone can care for you right. Not even him."

"I don't need you to worry for me. I'm loved—incredibly, wonderfully loved. Worry about your Clara. Worry because she loves you best, and you treat her like she's nothing."

It _was _the cruelest thing that'd been said all night. He recoiled.

"I do not treat her like she's _nothing_." He argued, but he felt uneasy.

"You do so. You shut her down any time she tries to get closer to you. You make crude comments about her appearance. You talk down to her, you patronize her. You're careless with her safety—"

"No! No! I'm protecting her!"

"From yourself?"

He almost choked on his own words.

"What?"

"Are you pushing her away because you're trying to protect her from yourself?" She persisted. When he failed to answer, she continued. "I don't know much about Time Lords. I don't know how you work—romantically, sexually, mentally. So I need honest, bull-shit free answers when I ask questions. What I want to know—and a yes or no answer is more than enough—do you love Clara?"

Months' worth of defensive hurt answered for him.

"No."

"Don't lie to me."

He looked down at his worn hands. "I'm not her boyfriend. It was a mistake. He—my last face…he was a fool for ever thinking he could be that for Clara. He led her on. I fixed the mistake."

He practically jumped out of his skin when she set her warm hands on his knees. He cringed back.

"Please, no touching, hands off," he ordered uncomfortably.

She pulled her hands back quickly.

"Sorry." She said gently. She cleared her throat. "Okay. What I want to know next is why you think it's a mistake to be with her that way."

The answer was immediate.

"I'm not human."

"Okay."

"Time Lords don't really…I mean, of course we _can_…and some _do…_and I _have…_but…"

Mrs. Smith rubbed her face tiredly.

"Doc, you're over two thousand years old. I think you can handle using the word sex."

He glared.

"I don't want to talk about this."

"I think you need to talk about it." She countered. "So let's start at the top. Do you feel sexual attraction?"

"We are not talking about this!" He insisted angrily.

"Yes, we are." She ordered. "Are you attracted to Clara?"

"Oh, you'd just love that, wouldn't you? This is like an ego trip for you."

"This has nothing to do with me."

"Doesn't it? You look just like her. _Tell me I'm pretty, Doc. Tell me I'm desirable. _There are so many adult films based on this very concept."

She cocked an eyebrow with interest. "So you watch porn. So you feel sexual impulses."

"Oh, you are a wicked woman." He growled. "I didn't say that."

"You implied it. Have you ever had sex before?"

"I've been married and I just said I had. What do you think?"

"I think it was probably an odd marriage. And you still haven't answered my question. What do you feel for Clara?"

He sputtered.

"I-I feel like it doesn't even matter, because no matter what I feel, she wouldn't feel that way for me, and really, she seems like a do-it-herself type of girl anyway."

Mrs. Smith's lips curled up in amusement.

"Doc," she admired. "It says so much that you've thought about Clara's sexual habits. It's interesting that you think that. She does have a boyfriend, you know."

He snorted. "What? PE? He's not equipped to handle…needs."

"And you'd know that because…?" She asked.

"Well, have you seen him?" The Doctor demanded. He worried she was growing angry with him. "But I'm not being rude, you know. I'm just saying I think Clara probably does a better job herself."

Mrs. Smith slid forward slowly, intently. Her eyes were dancing with interest.

"Tell me. Do you think you could do better?"

He balked.

"Better than…than PE? Absolutely."

Mrs. Smith turned her head to the right slightly.

"No. Better than Clara."

The conversation had taken such a sharp turn. He could hardly keep up with humans as it was. His mind stuttered.

"I…"

"It's really quite simple, Doc. If you love her, if you want her—tell her. I won't speak for her. I won't tell you what she feels. But I will say that keeping all that locked up is only making you both miserable."

He shifted, frustrated.

"But it's not simple. She wants things that I—well. And anyway, she's—and I'm—" he thought back to how Clara had introduced him to Danny. To the word she'd used to explain his entire being. "An alien."

"When will you stop using that as an excuse? You have the same basic parts as us. You seem capable of the same amount of love."

He saw flashes of all the faces he'd loved, all he faces he'd lost. She was missing the point. She was so _far _from the point. Clara would die and he would keep on going. What was the point of crawling inside of someone for only a moment?

"Who said I even want to love her?"

Mrs. Smith sighed. She reached up and rubbed over her face. He watched her rise tiredly to her feet.

"All right. You've exhausted me. Good night, Doc."

He'd won, but he didn't feel very victorious. The goal had been to get her out, to get her to leave him be—but she'd managed to get inside of him in a way he hadn't even managed to do with his cruel words. His brain sped up as she neared the door. He found his opportunity to rile her up when she stopped and turned.

"And, for the record," she began, eyes hard. "Being a mother is not a waste of anything."

He waited until she had the door open. His words were casual.

"Well, yeah. But you're not just a mum. You're a Mum. With a capital M."

Mrs. Smith hesitated. She turned around to look at him, her eyes filled with sharp suspicion. She approached his compliment cautiously.

"Thank you…I think."

"I mean, you work full-time, you don't smother them with their pillows. And you've got six for Christ's sake!" He continued.

She laughed shortly, tiredly amused. She threw her words over her shoulder as she turned to leave once more.

"I suppose. And it's five kids, not six."

"Oooh, yes. Yes. Sorry—it can get confusing being a time traveler. Yes. It's five for a few more months."

The look of pure, unedited terror on Mrs. Smith's face brought the Doctor a selfish sense of joy and accomplishment. Her hand slipped from the doorframe as she turned to look at him. Her eyes were practically half her face and she'd visibly paled, like someone had sapped every ounce blood from her face.

"_What_?" She breathed. It was hardly audible. She shifted towards him, panicked, her feet dragging the carpet. "No. No. You're kidding. You—you are, aren't you? Kidding? The Doctor's had a vasectomy. We can't. We _can't_."

He lifted his eyebrows. His laughter was a short bark.

"Well, you're going to have quite a lot to explain to your husband then, aren't you? Who's the lucky man? Have you been spending personal time with your children's PE teachers?"

She retreated back from him, like he'd just said something so horrifying she felt the urge to flee.

"There _isn't _another man!"

The Doctor yawned theatrically, like he wasn't getting his proverbial rocks off to the way she was flustered. He rummaged under the pillow for his sonic.

"I'll do a scan just to make sure my senses and memory are serving me right…." He looked down at the sonic. He did a reading of the air moisture, just so it'd make some convincing noises. "Ah, yes. Human baby in a human oven. It looks like a slightly smashed peanut. Very early on."

He waited in secret, pleased anticipation for her to give that low, angry sound and then smack his shoulder. But she was quiet. Alarmingly quiet. He looked back up at her after closing his sonic. She looked like she might vomit.

He backtracked a bit.

"You know, vasectomies go bad all the time, so if you say you didn't cheat, I'm sure you probably maybe didn't." She didn't look any more relaxed. He panicked quietly. "I can scan right now. See. I'll scan. Hmm….yep. Definitely the same parentage as your other children."

But his words meant nothing. It was as if he'd missed the point entirely, like she'd been doing to him the entire night. She sat shakily on the rocking chair for a tense moment, but then she stood back up slowly. She began pacing with her hands in her hair, that same sick expression gracing her features. Her breathing was rapid in her panic.

"Fuck," she bit out, but then the Doctor heard the angry, terrified tears in her voice. Worried guilt slammed hard into him. He reached forward hesitantly, like he might somehow catch her hand from across the room.

"Erm, Mrs.—I mean, Clara…" he began.

Truth be told, he was now terrified to admit he'd just been pulling her strings, trying to make her feel as unsettled and taken aback as he had. He was certain she'd strangle him after the intense grief he'd given her without even knowing it. He wasn't sure _why _she was reacting the way she was—I mean, once you have five, might as well keep on going. What's the difference, right? But to her it was a huge difference. She fell back down on the edge of the rocking chair, this time heavily enough that it almost bucked her off.

"It was so bad last time and I'm older now and I don't even know if they'd let me have a VBAC and—" her whispered words stopped. She looked up. "I've got to find the Doctor."

The Doctor jumped to his feet as she did.

"No, no you don't."

She didn't even spare him a response. She hurried through the door. He had to jog to catch up to her. His hand curled around her shoulder.

"Wait! It…"

She stopped.

"No, you're right. Of course you're right. I shouldn't wake him up in the middle of the night; he might faint. I should wait 'til morning. I should call Martha. I should—"

"I lied."

She stopped. She'd been gnawing nervously at her thumb nail, but as she spoke, her hand fell limply to her side.

"Pardon?"

He huffed. He looked down at his feet.

"It was a joke. But…you didn't laugh? Or hit me? Which I'm still puzzled over, really."

"A joke." She repeated flatly. And then it all seemed to hit her. She lunged forward, but he was aware enough to jolt backwards. "A _joke_? A—bloody—joke?!"

"To be fair, you came into the room in the middle of the night and started probing me on my personal sexual stuff."

"This is so different, you massive _wanker_!" She hissed. "I was trying to _help_, I was trying to sort out your vast emotional problems, you almost gave me a heart attack, you sodding—"

"What's a wanker?"

Mrs. Smith almost literally choked on her words. She clamped her lips shut with extraordinary effort, the beginning syllables turning into a dry cough in her throat. She gazed up at the top of the stairs at her son, the tiny one. He'd gotten her shortness _and _her nose, which truly wasn't fair to him.

"A—nothing. What are you doing up? Is everything all right?"

Her voice went from steel wool to honey in a second. The Doctor crossed his arms and snorted.

Her son sank down on the top step. He wrapped his arms around his knees.

"Why have you been yelling for the whole night?"

At first the Doctor thought it was whining, but after a moment, he realized it sounded more _worried _than anything. The child had anxiety on every feature as he watched his mum.

Mrs. Smith walked slowly towards the steps.

"Have you been awake all this time?"

He looked down guiltily.

"Yeah, 'cause all the yelling, and maybe something bad happened to you."

The Doctor watched her climb the steps. She sat down beside him and tugged him over into her lap easily, her earlier panic forgotten. The Doctor decided to slip away while he still had all his internal organs still inside of him and not outside.

"No, no," he heard her reassure him. Her voice got softer and quieter the further he walked away. "Nothing's happened to me, love. Everything's just fine."

He wasn't in control of his own tongue.

"Except for the baby, of course." He called from down the hall.

Her responding voice was dangerously even, like it was taking every single _ounce _of her self control to keep from screaming at him.

"I will kill you."

"Not when you're with child, you won't."

"_GO." _

"Yes, Mum." He said sarcastically. He was cheerful then, thinking he'd got away with it—only to remember she wouldn't always be under the curious eyes of a child. He'd have to face her eventually, but in the meantime, he'd gotten the bantering he'd craved.

He stretched out on his back on the bed, a self-satisfied smirk in place.

Until he glanced over at the empty bed his Clara normally occupied.

* * *

He was hesitant to join breakfast, knowing he was the number one enemy to most people in the room currently, but his stomach was growling and he got bored talking to himself. He never had anything new to say.

He felt a bit more optimistic when he heard the words _sonic screwdriver _as he approached the kitchen, assuming Clara had already put the fight aside and begun to get down to business. But when he entered, the two Claras were standing in front of the stove, hands shielding their mouths as they giggled and whispered about something they both found highly amusing. The Doctor scowled.

"Tsk, tsk," he heard. He turned and sought out Dr. Smith. He had his face stuck in a newspaper, but it was clear he'd heard every word his wife and Clara had said. "Naughty, naughty women."

They continued giggling. The Doctor felt irritation blooming within him.

"Morning," the Doctor snapped. And then because no one said anything but the children, he leaned against the door frame. "How's the baby, Mrs. Smith?"

The sound of Dr. Smith's violent coughing turned everyone's head. He choked on a wrong sip of whatever he was drinking, his hand wrapped around the front of his throat, his wide eyes on his wife.

"_What—_baby?" He sputtered between coughs.

Mrs. Smith wadded up the tea towel she was holding and threw it onto the floor.

"The imaginary one Doc made up!" She snapped. She glowered at him with a frightening intensity before she hurried over to help her husband. The Doctor could feel Clara's eyes on him.

"Might be imaginary, might not be. No telling what you two get up to." He commented lightly.

"They can't have any more babies. Because of a surgery." Curly informed him. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "It's for the better. Penelope was an accident."

"A surprise," Mrs. Smith corrected.

"A great surprise, like a Christmas gift." Poppy added.

"Honestly, it's gross." Curly continued. "They're way too old for 'surprises'."

Both parents shot her a mildly annoyed look once Dr. Smith caught his breath again. He looked at the Doctor, eyes widened with seriousness.

"Doc, do not _ever _joke about that. You might kill one of us."

He looked at the man. And then he looked at his Clara.

"If anything kills one of you, it's not going to be my jokes." He muttered.

Mrs. Smith cleared her throat loudly. "Kids, come make a plate," she ordered. She approached the table and ushered them towards the stove, glaring over top of their heads at the Doctor. He looked down at Clara when she approached.

"What'd I do?" He demanded. "It's a fact."

"Don't frighten the kids, Doctor. I've told the Smiths what you know so far, but they don't want the kids to know."

He watched Curly helping Poppy make a plate.

"A little late for that, I think," he hissed.

"What?!"

He glanced down at his Clara.

"How do you feel on the subject on us? After last night?"

She looked down. She kept her voice quiet and measured, so as not to draw attention to their conversation. She inspected her fingers as she spoke.

"Well, I think you're a prick," she bit. "But I also think we need to save this family. It's what we do, after all. And we work better together than apart."

He felt his heart inch up as it grew lighter. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch up.

"All right, then. You stay here, guard, keep an eye out. I'm going to scope around. I'll be back later with a report."

"Fine," Clara allowed. She smiled and nodded in response to a comment one of the kids yelled towards her. Her smile fell the moment the kid looked back down. "But hurry."

* * *

He roamed about London again. The newspaper reported nothing at all, but everything felt off to him still. The air had the metallic smell of danger; every one of his senses was alert, like part of him could see the threat even if he wasn't aware of it. He wished it'd share with the class.

He went back to the house when talking to himself got too annoying to deal with any longer. He stepped into the front hall during dinner and listened to the laughing and the chatting, the easy and comfortable way everyone coexisted with each other. He'd never felt more like an alien. He'd never felt more unwanted.

He didn't want to indulge his self-pity, so he refused to allow himself to return to the room he was staying in. He sulked into the kitchen. He stared at the table. He spotted the empty chair easily.

"Doctor!" Clara cried. She lowered her glass and beamed. "Good, I saved your place!"

Mrs. Smith rose.

"I put your plate in the oven. Should still be warm."

"Doc! I've been waiting ages, I wanted to ask you about—"

"Doc," Ellie interrupted her sister. "My fish is sad. Can you talk to her and ask her why?"

"I want him to talk to my bee!" Poppy whined.

"Poppy, that bee is wooden."

"YOU'RE WOODEN!"

It was overwhelming at first. But gradually, he felt warmth starting around the edges of his heart.

* * *

Of course, things couldn't stay nice. Things couldn't stay lovely.

It started with a weeping child.

Didn't it always?

* * *

Clara slept in the single bed across from his for the first time in a long while that night. He tried not to watch her as she stroked lotion into the smooth skin of her face. Or as she brushed her hair. He especially didn't watch how calm and beautiful she looked as she began drifting off to sleep. He played like it didn't matter, but deep down, he'd never been so relieved.

He'd been sleeping too much lately, so he found it impossible to sleep himself. He spent the night scourging the internet for clues until a sudden ruckus above distracted him. He could hear muffled crying and the sound of frantic footsteps. He knew his room was under the boys' room, and he was warring with himself over whether or not he should go fetch the parents, when he heard the door across the hall open. Of course he hadn't needed to.

Footsteps hurried up the steps. There was muffled talking and crying for a few moments, and the Doctor thought it was getting better, but then it grew louder and nearer. He hovered in front of his closed door, his curiosity rising fast. He gave into it and opened the door.

He watched the parents trudge down the steps. Something in their posture tipped him off to their worry. Miles was clutching onto his mother and weeping so violently into her neck that he was near hyperventilation. He was making awful wheezing sounds.

"Bring him to our bathroom," Dr. Smith whispered. His voice was taut with concern. "Let's put him in a warm bath, see if it'll calm him—I'll go get it started."

The Doctor guessed it was an okay idea. But the minute Dr. Smith disappeared into his bedroom, his son completely lost it.

"Daddy!" He shrieked. It was so broken and shrill that the Doctor's ears ached. The child began struggling in his mother's arms in such a frenzy that she lost her grip on him. He stumbled down the steps and ran full force towards Dr. Smith. "Don't go! Don't go! They'll get you, don't go!"

Dr. Smith stopped immediately and turned towards his son. He kneeled down and opened his arms, catching his distraught son in his embrace. He lifted him up and turned to look at his wife, desperate uncertainty on every feature. She looked small standing on the stairs, arms wrapped uneasy around herself. She hurried forward.

"Miles," she started gently. She set a hand on his back. "What's got you so upset? Was it a nightmare?"

"No, no, no!" He wept. He looked so distraught that the Doctor wouldn't have been surprised if he vomited. "I feel scared. I feel bad. I feel like things are bad!"

His mum didn't understand.

"Oh," she said. "Are you feeling ill? Is it your tummy, do you need—"

"It's not my tummy! I'm scared! I'm scared! I don't want Daddy to die!" He gave a shuddering breath as his gasping became almost worrying. "I'm scared, Mummy, I'm scared!"

"I'm not going anywhere, Miles," Dr. Smith tried to say. "I'm fine. I'm in great health. Why do you think I'm going to die?"

But he was past being able to articulate a thing. Clara bit nervously at her thumbnail, her other arm crossing over her stomach, like she felt physically ill from her son's distress.

"Why don't you take him to the bath?" She suggest to her husband. "I'll go get his blanket and some clean pajamas and meet you?"

"_NO_!" Miles wailed. "They'll take you, too! They want you, too!"

The Doctor knew kids were dramatic. But all at once, he knew this wasn't that. He stepped forward into the hallway to join them urgently.

"Miles," he said. "Miles. What do you mean?"

Dr. Smith looked tired. "Please, Doc, not right now, okay? He's hysterical; we've got to get him calm."

He ignored him. "You said someone is going to take your dad and your mum. Why? Who? You keep saying you feel it. What do you feel?"

He felt a hand settle on his shoulder from behind. He reared back, panicked, but it was only Clara staring back at him.

"We'll go get his blanket and some pajamas," Clara told Mrs. Smith tiredly. She reached down and took the Doctor's hand. She gripped it tightly and pulled. "Come on, Doctor."

"But—"

"No arguing."

He trailed after her obediently. When they stepped into the room, they almost tripped over the Smiths' other son. He was lying on the carpet with a pillow and blanket.

"Miles wet the bed," he informed them crossly. "_My _bed. I'm just saying."

Clara looked down at him, bemused.

"I'm sure your parents would let you sleep in their room. You don't have to sleep on the floor."

"I'm not going down there 'til my brother calms down." Bristol yawned. "I need to be able to hear when I grow up."

The Doctor stooped down so he could hear the child better. He figured Clara could handle the pajama stuff.

"Does your brother do this often?" He asked. "Did he say anything when he woke up?"

"My brother's a baby, but never _this _big of a baby." Bristol yawned. "He only said something about the post."

"The post?" The Doctor asked, confused.

"Yeah, didn't hear much else, though." He affirmed. And then, promptly: "Goodnight."

He pulled the blanket over his head without another word.

The Doctor followed Clara from the room quietly once she'd gathered the youngest boy's blanket—which, as Clara had been quick to explain to him, wasn't just any old blanket; it was sentimental—and they headed back downstairs. Clara stopped them before they walked into Dr. and Mrs. Smith's room.

"Do not interrogate that child right now. I know you think something's up, and I know that you're usually right when you think that, but it can wait until morning. Don't make things worse, all right? Nobody wants a crazed alien asking them dozens of inarticulate question while they're terrified."

He considered arguing, but she was wearing that steely expression that made it clear it'd just be a waste of his time to do so. He nodded instead, and that nod all but floored his companion. Her smile was warm and gradual. She reached over hesitantly and took his hand.

"Let's drop this off and go back to bed," she suggested.

The Doctor's eyebrows sprouted up his face. He could feel his face straining from the discomfort of his expression.

"How d'you mean?" He asked quickly.

Clara looked at him oddly. But she seemed to work out whatever he was confused about a moment later.

"Well," she started. She paused. He felt her eyes drift down his body once, examining, searching for something. "That depends. How do _you _mean?"

"I mean however you mean." He hedged.

She took a step closer. He retreated.

"And I mean it however you mean it." She shot back.

They locked eyes and held the gaze for an uncomfortable amount of time. The Doctor couldn't help but notice the way each of her breaths (were they more labored than normal?) brought her chest that much closer to brushing against his. He swallowed roughly, suddenly feeling like his throat was narrower, his body heavier, his skin more eager. He took three steps away this time, quickly, before he could change his mind.

"I mean it like you'd expect."

He watched her chin drop for a brief second. She cast her eyes down long enough to let out a tiny, inaudible sigh. Her smile was tight when she looked back up.

"Well, I did, too."

"Of course."

"Of course."

They locked eyes again. He felt like something was hooking into him, pulling him closer, and that awful electric zing was beginning, the one that overtook him whenever she touched him, and maybe this time he would just endure it and let—

"OSS…ie. Oh, good."

They both looked up at Dr. Smith, flustered. The Doctor shuffled his feet awkwardly and Clara's cheeks looked pinker than they had moments ago. She thrust the man's son's blanket and pajamas out towards him.

"Sorry," she whispered breathlessly. "Here you go. Is everything all right?"

"Well, my wife's sitting fully clothed in the bathtub holding our weeping son, so I'd say…no, not really." He admitted. "I'm going to check his ears once he's asleep; maybe he's got an ear infection, sometimes kids get really upset before they can verbalize what kind of pain it is or where it's coming from."

"Maybe," the Doctor said. "Or maybe it's something else."

Clara glared towards him. Coldness settled back over his warmed bones.

"Something else?" Dr. Smith asked. He furrowed his thin, almost invisible eyebrows. "Like what?"

"Like _nothing_," Clara interrupted. "Doc's sleep deprived. I'm taking him in bed."

It all happened too quickly for the Doctor. Dr. Smith arched an eyebrow and Clara grew visibly flustered.

"I mean—_to bed—_oh, nevermind, goodnight!"

He watched her walk off, confused.

"What's her problem? What'd she say?" He asked. And then it hit him. "Oh. _Oh_."

* * *

The Doctor was surprised to find Clara still awake when he returned. He collapsed back on top of his bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking.

"Clara?" He whispered.

The mattress creaked as she looked over. "Hmm?"

He counted his fast heartbeats. He squeezed his eyes shut and jumped right in.

"This isn't really what I meant before."

"I know."

He was satisfied with that. The truth was out with no uncomfortable emotional admittances. But of course Clara couldn't let him get by that easily.

"If you were stranded for six months, with someone you…" she stopped. In the dim light from the nightlight, he saw her roll over onto her side so she was facing him. She pushed her hand underneath the pillow and stared back at him. They were looking but they couldn't see, and that in itself felt like a rerun. "When you were him, did you ever want me?"

Her question brought back hundreds of unwanted memories. They felt distant and alien, like they didn't belong in his own head, even though he still felt that way about her to some degree. He felt that same wave of _need _that used to wash over him for a moment.

"When I was him, I needed you."

"How?" She pressed. "In what ways?"

"In every way."

"You never said."

"I cared for you too much to."

"You're saying it now."

"In past tense."

She went silent. He wanted to take his lies back, but he felt he needed them to protect him. He got the feeling she was waiting for him to say something else, maybe to explain himself better, but he never did.

"This is the last time I want to talk about this while we're here." She told him sometime later. "From now on, it's the parasite aliens we're focusing on."

Her tone was tinged with surrender.

* * *

He woke to the sound of sirens.

It sent everyone in the house into a panic.

Clara and the Doctor ran right into Dr. and Mrs. Smith in the hall. Dr. Smith ran up the steps to check on the other kids, taking them three at a time, while Mrs. Smith hurried to the front hall. The Doctor and Clara stepped behind her in the open doorway. They watched the body being lifted from in front of the neighbor's door. It was placed on a stretcher, but it was obvious the person was dead.

"Postman." The Doctor whispered. He reached down and tapped incessantly on Clara's shoulder. "Postman. _Post_."

She spun around, eyes so wide they consumed her face.

"Oh." She said. "_Oh_."

Investigators carefully gathered some things from the scene. There'd been letters scattered about the fallen body, but the authorities were particularly interested in the ones he'd had clutched in his hands, so tightly in his rigor state that they couldn't pry them free just yet. They stooped over and read as much as they could, and the three adults at the door watched as they slowly turned and scanned the house numbers. The Doctor watched them point to the Smiths' home without the slightest tinge of surprise.

"It's you," he whispered. Both Claras turned to him, confused, but he couldn't stop right now. He couldn't explain to them. "Your mail. They meant to get to you. But they went next door, and in the middle of the night. Why would they mess it up so badly? Unless they were working a faulty person. Or perhaps he was trying to fight it off, perhaps that left his mind weak, scrambled, eaten out like…Swiss cheese." He snapped his fingers rapidly. "Miles. Clara—the Smith one—use one word to explain your son. Excluding sweet and clever and creative. Now."

"I…?" She gestured nervously. "Uh…empathetic."

He snapped a final time.

"Empathetic."

He turned on the spot and walked away.

* * *

The Doctor had been gone for two days and five hours.

"He always comes back," she reassured the kids. "Even if it really seems like he won't."

She was worried for him (as she always was), but she was angry, too. He'd left her with two incredibly anxious parents, parents who wanted to know their family would be okay, parents who expected her to have the answers. But she didn't have any. She didn't know how these parasite aliens spread from person to person—if that's even what they were. She didn't know why they wanted Dr. and Mrs. Smith. She didn't know what the symptoms were of them in a person, she didn't know if there was any outcome other than death once someone was infected, she didn't know anything. And the family suffered for it.

The kids were due to start school the next day, but Dr. and Mrs. Smith didn't seem near reassured enough to allow it. Clara heard them talking quietly at night when she went to the bathroom about sending the kids to Blackpool until things settled. For a moment, she got a brief glimpse of what life would be like for her if she ever had kids. Even if she had them with Danny or with another normal man, she'd always be a danger to her children, because she lived this life. And now she was even endangering these kids in this universe.

There were no more nighttime fits and no one turned up dead on the neighbor's flowers again, but Clara didn't see that as a sign things were okay. She merely saw it as a sign that something was brewing. She wanted the Doctor back enough to cry some nights, but she wouldn't let herself.

It was the churning chaos of the house that prompted her to offer to do the week's shopping. Mrs. Smith was off from work that day to get everything put together for the first day of school, Dr. Smith was at work, and the kids were either moaning nonstop about the end of break or excitedly clutching their school bags, depending on which kid. Clara felt helping would be a welcomed distraction, so she took the list and the credit card and made her way to her own favored supermarket, thankfully identical to the one in her own universe.

She was halfway through the list and in the process of searching for the big box of blackcurrant fruit snacks when she heard her name. She looked up from the shelves by instinct, forgetting for a moment that she was a stranger in this universe. She watched a heavily pregnant woman approach her, an almost frantic looking kid behind her. He was jittery and gnawing nervously on his bottom lip. Clara painted a quick smile on her face.

"It's been so long!" The woman exclaimed, after an oddly awkward pause. "How have you been?"

Clara cursed inwardly.

"Great! Yeah, great. Uh, just, you know. Doing the uh, the shopping."

The woman's head bobbed as she nodded once, then twice. She kept on going, nodding for far longer than comfort would generally allow. After a good minute of nodding, Clara had to wonder exactly who poor Mrs. Smith had to associate with at her kids' birthday parties.

"Harris is excited about school," the woman continued.

Clara glanced to the kid behind his mother. He didn't look excited about anything, much less school, but Clara smiled politely anyway. She quickly guessed his age—he was probably around eight—and took a stab in the dark.

"Oh, yeah, Bristol's so excited too," she shared. She felt a ball of tension winding in her chest until the woman replied.

"Ha, yes. Our boys are just alike."

Clara exhaled in relief as discretely as possible, glad she'd gotten the connection between Mrs. Smith and this woman right. She glanced to her left and grabbed a single blackcurrant fruit snack. She quickly tossed them one at a time into her cart, deciding she'd rather escape this situation than save the Smiths a bit of money. She was sure Mrs. Smith would've felt the same.

"Well, I hope you two have a great night." She made to slip away, but she wasn't so lucky.

"Are you still married?"

Clara stopped. She turned back around slowly, confused.

"Yeah. Yep. Still married." She affirmed. She turned her head to the side slightly. "Why do you ask?"

The woman was staring blatantly at her hand. "No ring."

Clara felt the back of her neck prickle. It was unwarranted and sudden. She balled up her left fist and grinned tightly. The urge to leave was suddenly suffocating.

"Yeah, getting sized right now."

Her escape was thwarted once again when the woman suddenly extended her hand for Clara to shake.

"Nice to see you, Clara," she said. Behind her, her son continued gnawing his bottom lip. Clara could see the skin beginning to tear. "How are you?"

It was so awkward, out of place, and _strange _that Clara allowed herself a moment to hesitate. And in that moment, she could feel that her body didn't want to shake this woman's hand—but by polite, honed instinct, she reached forward and did. She grasped her hand loosely, surprised at once with the force the woman squeezed back with. She felt a quick shock, from perhaps static electricity, and her teeth ached. She pulled her hand back, realizing all at once—

She was in a supermarket. She didn't remember going.

She turned slowly in place, looking around at the bustling people and the packed shelves, her stomach swelling with nausea. She'd been at the Smiths'. She was helping Ellie pack her school bag. She was listening to Bristol and Lottie arguing about something. She was waiting for the Doctor. She was waiting to hear something. Clara looked down at the unpurchased food and then to the list. She turned and scoped the area around her, but she didn't recognize anyone she saw. She felt uneasy, and her stomach felt heavy, and her teeth ached. She reached up and rubbed over her jaw. She leaned against the shelf and fished in her bag for her mobile, but once it was in her hand, she realized she couldn't remember the Smiths' numbers. Any of them. She could remember the number of her house in Blackpool when she was a girl. She could remember the number of her flat, and Coal Hill, and Danny's flat, and the TARDIS. But the new numbers she'd carefully memorized were lurking somewhere just on the outside of her consciousness.

She was frightened and nauseated the entire ride back.

* * *

When she opened the door and heard the Doctor's voice, she felt a crippling, automatic wave of relief, only she wasn't sure why.

"Ossie's back!" Poppy squealed. Clara watched her approach—running so fast across the hall in her socked feet that she was slipping and sliding wildly—and felt the urge to reach for her. She felt the urge to grab her hand, to lift her up, to kiss her cheek. It was overwhelming and insistent, and she was about to. She was about to. But her mind snapped like a rubber band pulled too tight and she reared back away from the child, violently and quickly enough that the little girl stopped in place, confused.

The Doctor came into the room a moment later. Clara halfheartedly noticed his smile, but then her sickness was overwhelming. She took three steps over and sat down on the bottom step. The aching spread from her teeth to her head and it was an ache she couldn't put words to. She felt like something was eating at her brain. She felt like something was ripping her apart.

"Clara, good, I'm so glad to see you," he said genuinely, urgently. His voice sounded very far away. He was pacing as he talked, never stopping long enough to look at her. "I've figured it out. I'll explain it all later, but first of all, both Smiths have unique DNA. It's human, the sonic was right about that, but there's a cosmic imprint, a definite deviation from everyone else's, and it's what's these parasites feed off of. They're feeble creatures—couldn't withstand the vortex long enough to travel from universe to universe or even from world to world, so they're stuck here, only there's not much food here for them. Save these two! So it's searching for them and using human hosts to get to them, to infect them." He sounded really proud of himself. "Still not sure why it isn't going for us —I was close to it and it never once tried to get in contact with me. Just seems to want those two, we—or maybe just I—must be too rich with time energy, like a little kid trying to eat an entire turkey all by itself. It took a while, but I went to the baker's home, and I looked around at the people he knew, and I was able to spot it in action. It's sneaky, Clara. It's new! I've never seen it before, never heard of it, and oh, it's malicious. It jumps from person to person like a flea, it only needs basic skin-to-skin contact, and it's absolutely ruthless once rooted inside. To those too weak to fight it, it uses them until they're too weary to go on, and then it leaves them for a stronger host. Those it leaves are left mad. They kill themselves every time, as far as I can tell. But this! This is where it gets really interesting, Clara. The ones strong enough to fight it off, it fights right back. It tries to beat them into submission. I looked at someone who died after close contact with an infected person—their brain was eaten away. It'd look like dementia or some sort of degenerative brain disorder to someone who didn't know. I had Dr. Smith look at the scans with me, it starts with your memory, tries to make you forget you're infected, tries to trick you into doing what it says, tries to scramble you up like an egg—"

His silence was sudden and jarring. Clara had her face between her knees.

"Clara?" He asked.

"Clara!" It was a different voice. "Do you need helping carrying in the shopping?"

She was shivering.

"Shopping?" She mumbled. She tried to lift her head, but the back of her neck ached. She could hear screaming, but when she tried to look around, no one's mouths were open. "What shopping?"

_Touch. _

Dr. Smith's voice was louder as he neared.

"Are you all right?"

_I feel bad. I feel bad. _Shh!

She felt her palms begin to burn. It spread to her fingers. The tendons in her wrist felt taunt, ready to snap and break. Dr. Smith was in her line of sight, heading towards her, when the Doctor reached out and grabbed him fast. Clara watched the way the Doctor's eyes swam with panic before she couldn't hold her head up another second. It felt four times as heavy as it was before.

"No," the Doctor whispered. "No! No, no, _no_! Oh, God. God, no. Get out! Get out! Get out of the room!"

"What? Doc, what are you—"

"Get your children out! Leave!"

Clara heard the sound of a child beginning to cry. She felt two hands touch her, but it wasn't hands she wanted to touch. She felt something move in her head; her ears felt full, like someone had stuffed her head full to bursting.

"No," she insisted, but it wasn't her words. "No! I don't want you!"

The Doctor lifted her up. He held her close. She breathed quickly through her mouth and pursed her brow, trying to push those thoughts to the very back of her mind. It worked for a few moments at a time, but then it got too difficult. She managed to get a few words out.

"Doctor—"

"Is she all right? Where are you taking her?" Mrs. Smith demanded. Her voice sounded close. Clara felt something burn along her scalp. Her fingers twitched against the Doctor's chest.

"GET OUT OF HERE!" The Doctor screamed. It was thundering and desperate. "Get out! If this gets into your children, they will die on the spot! They're not strong enough! Get out!"

"My children are not in here! Where are you taking Clara?!"

"You aren't her mother! Leave her be!"

"No! You will—you will answer me!" Clara thought she sounded scared, but then Clara thought nothing else.

His words were a rush.

"They cannot survive travel between worlds. I'm going to take her somewhere, I'm going to fry them—"

"Your TARDIS doesn't work!"

"I know! I _know_!" He shrieked. "It's going to have to! It has to!"

He'd never sounded more frightened.

"What if it kills her, too? They're in her brain!"

"I have to try, I have to, I—"

It was too much. She couldn't handle it. She could feel unconsciousness lurking on the edges of her stressed mind. After an excruciating moment of struggle, she let go.


	6. Mistake

She woke to the sound of frantic swearing.

There was clanging, and sharp intakes of breath, and the terrible, unnatural groaning of a TARDIS in pain. And she was lying slumped against the panels underneath the console, her neck perched painfully on the edge of the opened hatch so her head was hanging in the very place she'd once cooked a Christmas turkey.

"Doctor?" She called. Her neck was so stiff that even lifting her head a centimeter caused sharp stings of pain to shoot down to her shoulders. She cried out softly by instinct, and somehow, that brief cry was louder than her actual calling had been. She tried to focus on the shuffling rhythm of his footsteps, but her mind was distant. She grew nauseated and confused.

"Clara."

She sensed him crouch down beside her. Felt his hand on her back. She swallowed roughly against the swell of sickness. She reached up shakily and grabbed onto the top of the panel, trying her hardest to move—only to have the Doctor pull her hands away.

"No, you can't move," he told her urgently. "I think I've finally gotten the TARDIS to move, but it'll be a bumpy ride, and I'm not sure if we'll even make it anywhere. The gas is gone but she's not mended. Stay put, though. The energy from the Time Vortex will help."

"No," Clara croaked, and at first she wasn't sure why she'd said it. But as she felt the TARDIS lurch, and the familiar dematerialization sound began, she understood. The first wave of pain was crippling. Her body slumped down as she cried out, causing her head to slip from its previous place.

"Clara?" The Doctor demanded. He reached down quickly and grasped her upper arms, saving her from falling face-first against the floor. The pain in Clara's head was unbearable; she didn't realize she was screaming until she felt her throat begin aching. It was splitting and tearing, like something sharp and strong ripping the hemispheres of her brain apart. She was certain it was.

"Stop!" She shrieked. She collapsed against him, shaking and gasping. "Stop it!_ Stop_!"

He urgently lowered her to the floor and jumped up. She curled up into herself and cradled her head as the pain mounted, certain she was dying, that this is how death would touch her—until it slowly began ebbing away.

"Clara, Clara, Clara," he was calling. She felt his fingertips touch her hair. His nails gently grazed over her scalp. "Clara, are you okay? Talk to me."

It took some time for the shock of the pain to wane. When it finally did, she lifted her head feebly and peered up at him.

"Better," she affirmed shakily. He reached forward cautiously and grasped her upper arms, helping to pull her upright. She leaned into his side once up, more from weakness than a desire for comfort. For once, he didn't pull away. "It was—bad. Terrible."

"Yes, well, I'm afraid your counterpart was right to worry about it killing you, too. I'd hoped that when the parasites died they'd disappear, but that's apparently not the case. Devoid of life, they'd decay right into your own brain matter. They'd rot there and you'd rot with it."

"Well," she spat. "It's a good thing we tried it just to see what happens! It's not like it would've _killed me or a—_oh, God,"

She crashed into his side. Needles pierced behind her eyes. Her breaths turned to little gasps of pain.

"Doctor," she begged. She reached up weakly to grab onto him, but she couldn't find his shoulder; the world was shrinking from her. She felt her heart plummet with panic. She feared she was dying. "Make it stop!" She ordered. She tried to open her eyes, and she thought she had, but the world was still black. "I can't see anything. I can't see you!"

She fluttered her eyelashes rapidly, but the world remained dark. She felt the Doctor's hands settle on her quivering arms.

"I think it's because we're in here. They're fighting back; they're taking your sight from you, like a child holds their breath when they don't want to do something. You're never supposed to give in."

Clara nodded, panicked. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. She reached blindly for the Doctor's hand, relieved when he immediately grasped her fingers. She was trying to be patient; she was trying to wait the parasites out.

And then every sound became padded.

She spiraled into frantic anxiety. The idea of being unable to see _and _hear frightened her to a point of senseless action. She fought her way upright, stumbling, dizzy.

"They're taking my hearing, what do we do?" She pleaded.

There was hardly a pause.

"Give in."

"But you said—"

"I said we weren't supposed to. I said it might weaken our defenses. I didn't say I was willing to let you go deaf and blind in our quest to out-stubborn the parasites." His hands hooked underneath her arms. She could feel the front of his body pressing against the back of hers as he pulled her upright. She leaned back against him, utterly disoriented to the point of nausea.

"I'm bringing you up." He told her. "To the main console room. I'm going to put you in my chair. I'm going to induce sleep."

"What?!"

"The only way to get rid of these things is to get them to jump to someone else. They're only going to transfer if they think that person has a better chance of coming across the Smiths. We're going to have to purposely put you in a room with the Smiths, and you're going to give it to them."

" _Wha_-?!"

"But before you do, I'm going to give them something to make them resistant to the parasite. I can't get rid of it once it's inside, but I can prevent it from getting in."

They were taking slow, careful steps across the floor. Clara stumbled as the fronts of her shoes hit the steps. The Doctor moved beside her and grasped her upper arms, gently helping her up.

"There we go. Same distance for each step. Just lift your leg as far as you can—better to raise too high than not high enough. Steady and slow." He encouraged.

Clara waited until she'd gotten the hang of it, and then she refocused on their previous conversation.

"But if you have a way to keep it from infecting, why haven't you already given it to us?" She demanded.

"Because I don't have anything yet. I've got to come up with something. And I need you asleep, because they can't do any damage while you're sleeping. They move through you; you can still control them by taking away your own consciousness." He explained.

Clara leaned against his side, relieved when they came to the top of the steps.

"How do we know they won't eat at my brain while I'm sleeping?"

She sounded teary even to her own ears.

"Because it would be foolish of them. If they killed you while you slept, they'd die, too." He looped an arm around her back and half-carried her the rest of the way to his armchair. He eased her down.

"Will it be like normal sleep?" Clara asked. She was still quivering, and the Doctor must've assumed she was cold, because she felt something heavy settle over her a moment later. When her hand made contact with a silk material, she realized it must've been his jacket. "Will I dream? Will I be able to wake up?"

"You'll naturally wake up in six hours. But I can wake you whenever I need." He reassured her. She heard his sonic opening. "Are you ready?"

"Yes." She said. She felt panic squeeze at her heart. "Wait—no. No."

He waited patiently, but Clara knew their time was waning.

"What if you lead it to the Smiths but you can't contain it? And it kills the entire family?"

He was quiet for far longer than Clara would've liked. She wondered suddenly if it was so crazy to worry that he'd do that for her. She worried that was entirely in his realm of reactions to a threat to her life. She convinced herself that it was just her muddled mind making her think that.

"I won't let that happen." He reassured her.

It sounded like a lie you'd tell a child to help them get to sleep.

* * *

It took five hours and nineteen minutes to create something with even the slightest chance of working.

He assumed it was the artron energy that clung to him that kept the parasites from assaulting him, but it wasn't easy to figure out a way to harness that as an effective preventative. He tried dozens of things, but in the end, it was tiny bits of spongerock from an uninhabited alien planet that showed the most promise. He set them inside the hatch underneath the console and let it soak up the energy—what that particular material was known for doing—and then sliced it into tiny pieces no bigger than tablets. He theorized that swallowing them would definitely infuse the body with enough energy to repel the parasites…but he had no idea how else it might affect humans. Jack Harkness was living proof that too much energy from the time vortex could kill; the key was in the amount. But in order to know what was effective, he'd have to risk someone's life in a test run, but the parasites wouldn't try to jump to just anyone. All he could do was hope.

He gathered the tablets in two bags—one with larger tablets for the adults, one with smaller for the children—and then he hurried back to the console room. He took the steps three at a time in his haste to reach Clara. She was still deeply asleep, her face resting against the pillow he'd propped between her shoulder and her head. His jacket was almost comically large on her and worked rather well as a blanket. He tucked the two bags into his trouser pockets and kneeled in front of her. His fingertips were light and hardly there as he pressed them to her temples. He dipped into her mind just barely—not enough to see anything, but enough to gently pull her consciousness forward. Her eyes were fluttering underneath her eyelids as he leaned back and let his hands fall to his sides.

Her eyes opened slowly. He'd just barely locked eyes with her when the most sudden, breathtaking smile covered her face. It was gentle and genuine and beautiful—a bit like Clara herself could be. The Doctor leaned back and tried not to feel stunned.

"I can see you," Clara croaked. She laughed shakily. "You're beautiful, Doctor, did you know that?"

He cleared his throat and looked away, but his own lips curved up into a smile despite.

"I'm glad they've returned your sight to you. I suppose they realized that's not going to help them." He stood up and quickly turned his back on the smile that made him feel things. "I've got tablets for the Smiths. We're to head to their house—you'll wait outside—and I'll go in and administer them. Then you can come in. Theoretically, the parasites should attempt to jump to the Smiths, but be unable to. They'll be stranded, so as long as no one suitable as a host comes into the house for about a week, they should die off."

She was dreadfully quick.

"What kind of tablets? Are they safe? And what about the other people who are infected? Who won't be in the room?"

He addressed the easiest question first.

"With the way these parasites are made—their one intention being to feed off the Smiths, each working to get to them, each working together—I'm almost certain that if one infected one of the Smiths—or thought they were about to infect one of them—they'd all merge together. It was what they're made to do, after all. They're only split apart in order to infect more people to hopefully raise their chances of getting to the Smiths. So all those infected should be evacuated the moment the parasites surge from you towards the Smiths. Theoretically. Hopefully. If not, all those infected will die, and with the Smiths now unattainable, the parasites will probably die off slowly."

He glanced back at her and realized she was waiting for a full answer to all of her questions. He studied her pale cheeks and her slightly fearful eyes. He could've told her the truth—that he had no idea what was going to happen—but if he did that, she might not even let him try. And he couldn't be without her. Just the thought made him sick.

"And the tablets are absolutely safe." He lied. And he didn't feel guilty for it, either.

* * *

He wasn't surprised to find they'd ended up in a different area of London than the one they'd departed from. He supposed trying to take off and then canceling it had thrown the TARDIS in her ill state. They walked out of the TARDIS right onto the pavement on the side of a busy street. It took the Doctor a moment, but Clara was able to place them immediately.

"We're in the Strand," she moaned. She turned on the spot and pointed behind them at the brutalist building swelling up from the ground. "King's College Strand building. How did that happen? Can we get back in the TARDIS and get it right? I don't feel steady enough for the walk to the tube."

The Doctor glanced back down at Clara.

"We can try," he said hesitantly. "But I think any travel is going to cause you pain."

"Even if we just move inside this world?"

"Well, we only moved inside it last time, and you were hurting."

"Fair enough." Clara sighed. She pointed them in the right direction and they set off. They made it perhaps a dozen steps before she tripped and stumbled. The Doctor reached forward and caught her arms by instinct.

"Clara?"

"Bad. Oh, God," she gasped. She slumped forward, and it was only his hands keeping her from falling down onto the pavement. "I need to sit."

"What's happening?" He demanded. He slowly and painstakingly moved them to the closest bench, back the other way outside of the building the TARDIS landed them at. He helped ease her down. She folded in on herself immediately, her forehead pressing her thighs, her hands on the back of her head.

"I'm dying," she gasped, and it sent the most painful wave of panic through the Doctor that he'd ever felt.

"What?!" He demanded. "Clara, what are you feeling? Talk to me."

"It's like—clawing at my—" the words stopped in favor of a whimper. The Doctor's mind went into hyper drive.

"Okay. I'm going to carry you. We're going to get to the Smiths. We're going to stop this."

She was stumbling over her words, attempting to respond, when a pair of university students passing by stopped. The Doctor glanced up at them, panicked.

"Get lost!" He ordered. All it took was one touch to or from Clara and they would die and it would spread and-he didn't have the ability to contain this. That panicked realization slammed fully into him. He did not have the ability.

The two girls shared a look. One of them edged forward in concern.

"Are you okay, Miss?" She asked Clara. "Do you need help?"

"She's fine! She's fine!" The Doctor growled. "Get _lost_!"

The girl leveled an icy look his way. "I was asking her. Not you. Don't speak for her."

"You two have to turn around now, walk away, and _leave us —_"

The girl's hand landed lightly on the back of Clara's skull before the Doctor even saw it moving forward. He jumped up in horror and reached out to shove her hand off, but it was too late. He heard Clara give a shuddering breath. And he watched as the girl's eyes grew suddenly dim and distant. Her hand went slack and fell from Clara's head. She backed up with eerily precise steps and looked to her friend.

"I've got to go see Dr. Smith. About a mark." She said flatly.

Her friend furrowed her brow. The Doctor's mind was trying to make sense of too many things at once: it was all a swirling mess of information. Clara's panting to his left, the girls' strangely eclectic clothing choices, the fact that his TARDIS somehow placed him near to the Smiths but not when he needed, Clara, Clara, Clara. In the end, it was the latter that held more weight. He knew he needed to restrain the student somehow…but Clara was crying in tiny gasps.

"Have they gone?" The Doctor asked her urgently. She squeezed her head between her hands and cringed.

"Yes. But it hurts. Where they were hurts."

He knew it had to have been an extreme, debilitating pain to make Clara act that way. He glanced towards the retreating back of the infected student. He looked back to Clara. There was no way she could race after the student with him; she could hardly keep her head up.

"Okay," he began. "Okay. Here's what we're going to do. I'm putting you back in my TARDIS. I'm going to go stop that girl before she gets to Dr. Smith, come back to you, and then we're going to find a way to make the pain stop."

She nodded. She didn't even have one argument, and that frightened the Doctor. He hurriedly half-carried her back to his TARDIS. He set her down in his arm chair and draped his jacket back over her. She was almost convulsing in her agony.

"Put me back to sleep," she pleaded. "Until you get back. Please."

He was frightened to, because he didn't know the extent of the damage, or if there even was any. He didn't know if she'd wake up. But the look of twisting pain on her features sealed his resolve. Selfishly, he couldn't allow her to suffer. He couldn't stand it.

She was finally peaceful once she was asleep. He spared her one last concerned look, his heart large in his throat, and then he sprinted from his TARDIS before he could do something foolish (like kiss her).

He caught a brief sight of the girl headed into the Strand building. He jogged the distance and then weaved in with a pack of giggling students, hot on the girl's heels. He followed her to the stairs, relieved she hadn't taken the lift—but that relief dwindled after the third flight they climbed. It was obvious the parasites didn't want her to come into contact with anyone but the person she was headed for, so the packed lifts were off-limits, but she was headed for the seventh floor. The Doctor was wheezing by the time they made it up.

He followed the girl's frenzied pace to a large door labeled "Physics Seminar Room". He assumed Dr. Smith was giving some sort of visiting lecture inside, though he would've assumed he would've done so in the medicine department and not the physics. He hurried after the girl as she strolled right into the room, indifferent to the obvious fact that a lecture of some sort was going on. The Doctor dodged rows of students and faculty, his heart hammering hard in his chest, and it wasn't until they got closer to the front that he began searching for Dr. Smith. He scanned his eyes around the room, but he didn't see him anywhere. To the great relief of his calf muscles, he stopped, confused.

The girl was still making the same quick beeline to the front. The Doctor looked around, baffled. There was a young female professor at the front, and an elderly man to the right, but no Smiths. What did she want? The interactive board informed the Doctor that the lecture topic was "Galaxies from the dawn of time", and that the lecturer was Dr. Smith, but perhaps he'd stepped out, or failed to show up. With the parasite, it was possible that he'd phoned in sick. He wouldn't want to expose himself to that risk.

"Deionization courtesy of these original galaxies played an irreplaceable role in forming some of the earliest stars recorded…"

The girl was still heading forward. The Doctor paced the aisle, his hands going to his hair. He watched as the lecturer reached up to her hair, too. She pulled absentmindedly at a curl fallen loose from her bun. A curl. A curl from her—

His breath escaped him in a weak exhalation. He felt unsteady on his feet. He turned and sought out the nearest student.

"You!" He barked. He fumbled in his pocket. He pulled free his psychic paper and flashed it. "Show me your course syllabus!"

The student jumped, alarmed. He shoved his notebook over with quivering hands. The Doctor leaned over and stared at the module date. The numbers of the year blurred. 2050. 2050. 2050—and the professor's full name was definitely _not _Dr. John Smith.

"Not good," he mumbled. He snapped his head forward. The student was at the front now. "Bad. Very bad."

"Dr. Smith." She interrupted loudly.

The professor ignored her.

"We can see from these images that the gases surrounding these—"

"DR. SMITH."

Ever her mother's child, the woman stopped. She turned towards the student slowly. The Doctor watched a familiar eyebrow rise slowly, challengingly. Terrifyingly. He watched the student he'd snatched the syllabus from lower down in his seat.

"Sarah, in case you failed to notice, I'm currently in the middle of lecture."

"I noticed. I need to speak with you."

The room grew terribly quiet. Dr. Smith licked her lips and then pursed them. She tapped her pen against the podium. And then she slowly turned to look at Sarah.

"Sarah, I'll be in my office after this, come by and—"

"Now."

She was too close for comfort now. The Doctor couldn't put it off another moment. He hurried forward, expecting the woman to recognize him, but she looked even more confused when he came to a stop beside Sarah.

"Look, if you're her father, and this is about a mark, it's entirely inappropriate to storm in during lecture."

The Doctor balked.

"What?" He demanded. He felt insulted. "I know it was a long time ago, but really, Curly, you should remember me."

Her confusion mounted.

"I'm sorry?"

He stared. He considered the possibility that this was another Charlotte Oswald-Smith, but the odds of that were fairly slim. She would've been in her late-30s in 2050. And she did love astronomy. Not to mention the physical similarities to her mother in particular.

"But…" strangely, his feelings felt wounded. He'd spent a long time with this child. She'd even told him all about her drama with her little preteen friends at school. He still remembered it, too, which was saying something, because that meant he must've been listening. Must've cared. He shook his head with some struggle. "Nevermind." He flashed his psychic paper.

"Security. This student is dangerous. I'm here to escort her off premise."

Lottie looked unconvinced.

"I know Sarah; she's not 'dangerous'." She insisted. "But this is very unlike her. I think you ought to phone her parents."

"That's exactly what I was going to do." He lied. He grabbed onto the girl's arm gently. "Come along, Sarah."

She fought him viciously. She thrashed, she smacked at him. Panicked whispers traveled around the hall rapidly. He fought to maintain him calm appearance. He made steady but difficult steps out of the room, and once they were free, he let out a gasp of relief. And then he looked at the thrashing girl in his arms.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "I'm terribly sorry."

He pressed his fingertips to her temples and subdued her. He carried her down the hall, searching for Lottie's office. He set the girl down on the floor and sonicked open the door. He settled the girl gently on the sofa and then hurriedly fled, shutting the door behind him. He locked it back and paused, his mind racing. What to do now? He had three equally terrible choices. He could forcibly transfer the parasite from Sarah to another, he could lock the poor girl up somewhere with no other humans and let her wither, or he could continue with his previous plan. But now—knowing that they were in the future—it made things much more complicated. They'd need to get back into the present, but the TARDIS trip might kill Sarah. Either way, this poor girl was doomed. All because she'd been caring.

The Doctor strolled back towards the lecture. He stuck his hand into his pocket and touched those bags. The parasite seemed intent on latching onto Lottie—to presumably go from her to her parents. If he could talk her into going along with it, he might be able to give her the tablet, then get her and Sarah together, then lock off her office long enough for the stranded parasites to die. It had as much a chance of working as it did of failing. He just knew he had to do something; he couldn't leave with Clara and let this run rampant. He'd let the situation get even worse. He'd allowed the parasite to time-travel. It was a threat to this world in the present and now the future, too.

He stepped back into the room and took the seat at the very back. He rolled those tablets between his fingers as Lottie finished up her lecture. He waited impatiently at the back as she chatted with those who came up afterwards with questions or comments. An hour had passed by the time they were the only two in the room.

"Lottie!" He called.

She'd been in the process of packing up her belongings. She stopped and turned, scanning the empty room. She looked embarrassed when she spotted him.

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't remember you," she admitted apologetically. "Did we meet at the luncheon at the start of term?"

He stopped once he reached her. He stood in front of her awkwardly.

"Yeah," he lied. "Sorry, just assumed you'd remember."

She lifted her bag onto her shoulder. She smiled.

"No, it's fine! I should've remembered. I feel like a bitch for not remembering. What's your name?"

"It's—John...Apple." He said automatically. "Listen, there's something I need to ask—"

His question died on his lips as her mobile began ringing. She tapped some sort of wristwatch looking thing at her wrist. He assumed she had an earpiece in, because she looked off like she was listening to something a moment later.

"Sorry, give me a moment," she told him. She turned slightly. Her tone curved up with excitement. "Seriously?! How many centimeters?" She adjusted the bag on her shoulder. "Brilliant—tell her I'll be there in a moment. I'm only a few minutes away."

He was already feeling objections build at the back of his throat. She smiled distractedly at him.

"Sorry, I've got to go. My sister's in labor—nice to meet you again, John Apple." She wiggled her fingers in a wave and set off from the room. He followed after her quickly.

"Lottie, wait," he called urgently.

She shot a look back. She slowed.

"Yes?"

She was getting frustrated. He could read it easily, because she did the same wide-eyed pouty thing her mother did.

"We need to talk about Sarah."

"And we will, definitely. My office hours are posted on the door."

He was about to insist that they needed to talk _right now_, but at that moment, they walked past her office door. Her _open_ office door.

"Oh," Lottie said. Her tone was surprised. "There's Sarah now."

The Doctor snapped his head forward. Sure enough, Sarah was heading towards the stairs. The Doctor panicked.

"Don't touch her! Don't get near her!" He yelped at Lottie.

"I wasn't actually planning on it." She commented. Her dark eyes were sharp with suspicion. "What's going on?"

He floundered.

"Uh, well…basically she has a hit list. And you're at the top. And I'm supposed to…follow you until she's restrained. For your own safety."

He hoped she'd become a lot more gullible than she'd been as a girl. When she crossed her arms tightly, he realized he wasn't so lucky.

"Look," she began warily. "I'm engaged."

He looked at her dumbly.

"Okay? Congratulations?" He gestured wildly towards the stairs. "We have to beat her. She's headed wherever you're headed."

"How would she know where I'm headed?"

"It's a thing in her head. She knows." He insisted. He set his hands on her shoulders and gently nudged her forward. The navy suede of her blazer tickled his palms. "Well come on, come on!"

"Okay, here's what's going to happen." She stepped out of his touch. "You're going to go down the lift, I'm going to go down the stairs. You're going to go wherever it is you go—and I'm going to go wherever it is that _I _go. It's simple and it won't result in me kicking you."

He looked down at her feet to make sure she wasn't wearing those heels that his Clara sometimes did. She wasn't. Her shoes were flat and looked pretty innocuous peeking out from underneath the hems of her trousers.

"I'm not frightened of you kicking me," he scoffed. He backtracked in his mind, trying to understand why she didn't like or trust him.

"You really should be."

It took him a moment longer, but finally, it clicked.

"Oh. Oh, that's just—no. Listen, I'm not…being creepy. Trust me. I might as well be your dad. I'm trying to save your family." He wrung his hands in frustration. "You _seriously _don't remember me?"

"I _seriously _don't."

He stared at her for a moment longer, his heart sinking. He nodded.

"All right, yeah. You go on. I'll go on. We'll both just go on."

"Fantastic."

She turned and walked away without another word. He waited a few seconds, and then he hurried towards the lift. He timed it all perfectly: she was just exiting the building as the lift doors opened. He kept a good distance between them as he followed her, eventually ending up at a hospital. He spotted Sarah walking in, but it was obvious Lottie didn't, because she kept moving forward regardless. By the time she'd gone through the door, he realized he'd have to blow his cover. He sprinted after her, indifferent to the people he was crashing through. He followed blindly and ended up in a reception area, filled to the brim with familiar-but-different faces. It didn't take him long to spot Mrs. Smith. Because Sarah was already closing in.

Streams of Gallifreyan curses flowed through his mind. He propelled himself forward, but like always, it was too late. He fell impossibly still as Sarah grasped onto Mrs. Smith's shoulder. Felt his heart plummet so completely to his toes that it knocked the breath from him as her eyes went blank. She looked forward with such empty eyes for a moment, and then she gave her head a shake. Sarah stumbled backwards to a chair and sat, confused, pained. Mrs. Smith—now a woman in her sixties—cracked a bemused smile.

"Lottie," she said. Lottie was staring at Sarah, bewildered. She looked hesitantly towards her mother. "I was just about to phone you!"

Lottie blinked. "Mum, you did phone me."

Mrs. Smith paused. "Oh. Oh, I did! Your dad's getting some tea for everyone; I'll go tell him you're here. Ellie's with Poppy and Charles."

A little girl hurried over to Mrs. Smith's side. The Doctor felt nausea peak as she reached up and grasped onto her grandmother's hand before he could do a thing. He waited for the little girl to drop dead—but nothing happened. She tightened her hold on her grandmother and started asking something about when her "new baby sister" would be here. The last thing he heard was her asking why "Granda" didn't take her to get tea with him. The Doctor sank back into the hall after that.

He hadn't expected any of the parasites to jump to an ordinary person now that they were inside of Mrs. Smith. Like he'd theorized, he was certain they'd all merged together inside of Mrs. Smith's brain. But he had expected them to go for those related to her. The Doctor could only guess that he'd given those tablets to all the Smiths after all. He must have given them to the family—sans Mrs. Smith—once he returned back to present day, after this huge disaster. The energy would've been in the kid's blood and therefore passed down into _their _kids' blood. He sat in the back of the reception room and waited until Dr. Smith returned with the massive tray of tea. He watched him kiss his wife and he waited, but his eyes did not go blank. Even though he was one of the original targets, too. It was further proof that he must've made them all immune except Mrs. Smith. But _why_? Why would he leave her vulnerable? Why couldn't he just give it to her now and change it? The Doctor perked up after a moment, because he _could_ do that. He could give Mrs. Smith the tablet in the past and prevent her from ever getting it- but then he remembered that the entire species' purpose was to infect the Smiths and feed. They must've all surged to that point in time once one was inside of Mrs. Smith, leaving all the infected people in the past safe and sound. If he tried to save Mrs. Smith, it'd be at the expense of thousands.

The biggest question he had as he walked back was how he was going to tell Clara.

* * *

He drew her from sleep gently, with two hands cradling the sides of her face. She woke gradually.

"Doctor," she whispered tiredly. She licked her lips and sat up slowly. Her hand touched briefly to her forehead. "I feel much better."

The Doctor smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Good. I'm glad," he said honestly. He could feel his edges going soft, and Clara could, too. She looked up at him slowly, her eyes filling with concern. He turned so his back was to her and stared forward. "Something happened and I'm sorry."

The words were hard and blunt. He'd cut off all emotion, all pity, all sorrow. The basics were important now. How he felt about it wasn't. His feelings wouldn't save anyone.

He heard the chair creak as Clara turned it.

"What?" She demanded. Her voice left her in a terrified whisper. He could hear her words wavering next. "Please don't tell me those children are dead."

"No," he reassured her. "No, it's not that. The kids are fine. Better than fine." He thought to the glimpses he'd caught of all of them. "They end up great."

"How do you know…"

"We went too far."

"What?"

He paced over to a bookshelf. He touched the spines nervously and tried to ignore the way his fingers were trembling.

"We're in the future. About twenty-eight years or so. The girl who got infected, she…"

He stopped. He heard the creak of the chair and Clara's soft, hesitant footsteps.

"She _what_?" She asked sharply.

It was only his concern for her that got him to turn. He knew he would have to watch her face crumble. He deserved the pain he'd feel at the sight of her disappointment.

"She infected Mrs. Smith. Before I could give her the tablet. There was nothing I could do. And I'm almost positive that I was right, that all the parasites have now moved to her. All those people back in present day should be safe now."

Clara's eyes were impossibly wide and glassy. It was like looking into a mirror.

"But you said the kids—"

"The parasites didn't jump from Mrs. Smith to anyone. Not her children, grandchildren, or even Dr. Smith. I think—" he stopped. He waited until he was sure his voice wasn't going to shake. "I think it's because I give them the tablets when we go back."

She stared at him without saying a thing for an uncomfortable amount of time. She turned after a moment and walked past him slowly. She moved to the next bookshelf. She preoccupied herself with tracing over the book titles.

"So we give Mrs. Smith the tablet, too. Problem solved."

But he knew she could tell it wasn't that easy.

"We could." He admitted. "But if we did, all those infected now would die."

"Maybe not." She insisted quickly. "You could find a way."

"It's not that simple. If Mrs. Smith never gets infected in the future, all the parasites don't leave the present day."

She shook her head. "But it wouldn't matter. Because they'd just die off anyway, like you said."

"At the cost of possibly thousands of lives," he pointed out. "The parasites will eventually die off, yes. But like we said before…there's no way to get them out once they're in, except luring them to someone else. And if they have their main source of food taken away, there will be nothing to get them out."

Clara spun around. She shook her head stubbornly.

"So what happens to her, then? She dies? Kills herself?" She demanded. "In front of her children? Her grandchildren?"

It was impossible to miss the way she couldn't meet his eyes. The way her eyes were going wet. The way she was wringing her hands. He took a step closer, and then another, and then another. He reached forward slowly and unsurely. He gently held her upper arms.

"It won't be the same. They're not hunting anymore. They've got her. It's going to be slow; they're going to take their time. It shouldn't hurt like it did with you, because they were fighting you. They don't have to fight Mrs. Smith. They've already won. Her brain will see effects of their leeching presence over a period of years. She will slowly burn out, losing parts of herself at a time. Her brain will end up looking like the brain of those the parasites killed in their quest to get to her, but it will take much longer. And they'll enjoy it."

Clara shook her head. When she finally looked up to meet his eyes, hers were gleaming behind a film of unshed tears.

"But it's not fair," she said.

He felt his own throat seize, like it wanted to close. Like he wanted to cry. Or perhaps destroy something. His sadness and his anger often felt strangely intertwined.

"I know. I'm so sorry, Clara. I know you cared for her."

She looked down and blinked rapidly. He watched the tears capsize.

"How do we tell her this? How do we tell her that we did this? That I—that _I _did this?"

He watched the pain sweeping across his companion's face in waves. And then he made his decision.

"We don't tell her. We give her a choice."

Clara looked up. "What?"

He straightened his posture.

"Yes. We tell her exactly what happened and exactly what will happen to her. We explain to her the consequences of choosing to save herself. And then we give her the choice. If she wants me to give her the tablet, I will give her the tablet."

Deep down, he knew she would never choose that. But for a selfish moment, he wanted her too. All human lives were important, and no one had the right to choose who lived and who died, but he would never be able to ignore the fact that part of him felt any Clara out there was always worthy of life above all else. It would be his downfall one day.

Clara was locked in place, staring at him. Strong emotions would pass over her face for a moment, but then they'd be gone.

"You would give her that choice? You would let thousands die if she asked?" Clara asked. "You would give her the agency to decide that? To choose her life over her…soul?"

The Doctor blinked.

"Well, of course I would, Clara. She's you." It was everything short of admitting the greatest truth. That he would do anything for her.

His eyes were locked softly on hers. He thought about reaching forward and initiating a hug. He felt it wouldn't be so difficult to control himself this time, that it might feel comforting. But she had a strange look in her eye, one he'd never seen before, and he'd just decided not to bombard her when she took a step forward. Her palm settled between his hearts. He looked down at it, at her elegant fingers and multiple rings. He looked back up at her. "Clara?"

Her other hand lifted to his face. He swallowed nervously as she cupped his right cheek. Her thumb swept gently over his cheekbone as she stared at him, that new and slightly alarming expression on her face.

"Doctor," Clara began. She licked her lips. "Doctor."

"…Yes?"

Her answer contained no words, and at first, he couldn't even process it at all. Her lips pressed gently to his and he completely froze. His eyes were wide, his arms were up in the air on either side of him , and his hearts were beating at such a pace he thought he might be sick. After a soft kiss, she pulled back.

"You're my best friend." She told him. He was a fool for hearing _I love you_. "Sometimes I forget why. But I never will again."

He was a fool for saying _I love you, too_.

"You're my best friend, too." He all but whispered. He cleared his throat and looked around awkwardly. "Of course you are, Clara."

He wanted to say: _I'm sorry that I can't make everything all right for you. I'm sorry that I continue to cause your death over, and over, and over again. I'm sorry that we were happy somewhere and now it's on a path of destruction. _

_I'm sorry that the universe never lets me keep you._


End file.
